'<Jtt 


14*  *•    • 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

JOSEPH  FORT  NEWTON,  LITT.D.,  D.D. 


PREACHING   IN 
LONDON 

A  Diary  of 
Anglo- American  Friendship 


BY 

JOSEPH  FORT  NEWTON 

LITT.  D.,  D.D. 
Author  of  "The  Sword  of  the  Spirit"  etc. 


NEW  XSJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1922, 
BY   GEORGE    H.    DORAN    COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1921, 
BY    THE    ATLANTIC    MONTHLY    COMPANY 


PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 


TO 

JOHN  WILSON 

AND 

HIS  DAUGHTER  JANET 

WHO   WERE   FATHER   AND   SISTER   TO 

ME  IN  A  DARK  TIME 
I  INSCRIBE  THIS  BOOK  OF  THE  CITY  TEMPLE 

WITH 
LOVE   AND    GRATITUDE 


2209333 


IN  THE  VESTRY 

Parts  of  the  Diary  in  the  following  pages  appeared  as 
a  series  of  articles  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  August, 
September,  and  October,  1921 ;  and  I  am  indebted  to  the 
editor  for  his  kindness  in  allowing  me  to  use  them  here. 
The  City  Temple  ministry  was  not  intended  to  be  perma- 
nent, but  was  undertaken  as  a  kind  of  unofficial  ambas- 
sadorship of  goodwill  from  the  Churches  of  America  to 
the  Churches  of  Britain,  and  as  an  adventure  in  Anglo- 
American  friendship.  It  was  a  great  privilege  to  stand 
at  the  cross-roads  of  the  centuries  at  such  a  time,  a  teacher 
of  Christian  faith  and  an  interpreter  of  the  spirit  and 
genius  of  our  country  to  the  motherland.  The  Diary, 
kept  during  those  years  of  the  Great  War  and  the  Little 
Peace,  records  observations,  impressions,  and  reflections 
of  men,  women,  and  movements,  of  actors  still  on  the 
stage  of  affairs,  of  issues  still  unsettled,  and  of  beauty 
spots  in  one  of  the  loveliest  lands  on  earth. 

Of  the  necessity  of  the  friendship  of  English-speaking 
peoples  I  am  utterly  convinced;  but  the  possibility  of  it 
is  not  so  manifest  as  it  seemed  to  be.  Once  I  discussed 
this  matter  with  the  most  picturesque  statesman  of  Eng- 
land over  the  tea-cups ;  and  to  my  suggestion  that  America 
should  have  a  tea-hour  for  relaxation  from  the  strain  of 
our  hurrying  life,  he  replied :  "But,  remember ;  we  offered 
you  tea  once  and  you  would  not  take  it!"  His  thought 
was  that  what  Americans  and  Britons  need  is  "a  smoking- 
room  acquaintance" — something  to  break  the  stiffness  and 
formality,  and  enable  them  to  mingle  in  freedom  and 
fellowship.  No  doubt;  but  great  nations  cannot  mingle 

vii 


viii  IN  THE  VESTRY 

in  a  smoking-room,  and  in  this  instance  their  ignorance 
of  each  other  is  appalling.  Still,  if  each  one  who  journeys 
from  one  country  to  the  other  is  an  ambassador  of  good- 
will, the  sum  of  our  efforts  will  be  felt  at  last. 

In  the  following  record  my  design  has  been  not  to  de- 
scribe the  war,  save  as  it  echoed  and  eddied  round  the 
pulpit  of  the  City  Temple ;  but  to  interpret,  in  some  meas- 
ure, its  moral,  social  and  spiritual  reactions  in  England 
— and,  greatly  daring,  to  give  some  hint  of  the  tragedy 
wrought  in  the  deep  places  of  the  soul.  Long  ago  Jules 
Lemaitre  said  that  criticism  of  our  contemporaries  is  not 
criticism,  but  conversation;  and  if  in  these  pages  I  have 
spoken  freely  of  men  and  women,  I  trust  I  have  not  failed 
either  of  courtesy  or  of  goodwill.  Once  more  I  wish  to 
confess  my  deep  gratitude  for  the  cordial  and  fraternal 
reception  everywhere  accorded  me  in  England,  Scotland 
and  Wales,  and  to  express  the  hope  that  when  the  irrita- 
tion and  confusion  of  the  war  have  passed  away,  the  two 
great  English-speaking  peoples  may  be  drawn  into  an 
intelligent  and  enduring  friendship. 

J.  F.  N. 

The  Church  of  the  Divine  Paternity. 
New  York  City. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I    A  PULPIT  ROMANCE            .     .     M    WJ     .     .     .  13 

II    JOSEPH  PARKER 33 

III  THE  CITY  TEMPLE  ..........  49 

IV  WAR  AND  PREACHING •.     f.  77 

V    PEACE  AND  CHAOS  .     .     .     .     .     .     ...    ,.    ,.  107 


I:  A  Pulpit  Romance 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

f 

I 

A  Pulpit  Romance 


To  be  suddenly  picked  up  from  central  Iowa  and  set 
down  in  central  London  would  be  a  startling  enough  ex- 
perience at  any  time,  but  it  was  doubly  so  in  1916.  No 
two  environments  could  hardly  be  more  unlike  than  a 
quiet  little  community  in  the  far  middle  West  of  America 
and  the  old  grey  city  of  London,  at  that  time  an  arsenal 
and  a  hospital  at  the  centre  of  an  embattled  world.  Pass- 
ing from  one  atmosphere  into  the  other  was  not  only 
bewildering,  but  actually  painful,  and  the  shock  of  it  will 
be  the  memory  of  a  lifetime.  From  the  battle  of  the 
Somme  until  the  end  of  the  war,  and  for  more  than  a 
year  during  the  awful  eclipse  of  ideals  which  followed 
it — more  trying  by  far  than  the  war — my  work  was  done 
under  conditions  so  appalling  as  to  test  every  resource 
both  of  faith  and  of  fortitude. 

For  well-nigh  eight  years  before,  sermons  from  the 
Little  Brick  Church  of  Cedar  Rapids  had  been  printed  in 
England,  first  in  The  Christian  World  Pulpit,  and  later, 
beginning  early  in  1916,  every  week  in  the  now  defunct 
Christian  Commonwealth.  The  sermons  had  brought  me 
many  letters  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  even  from  Africa 

13 


14          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

and  India,  but  I  had  never  imagined  that  I  might  be  asked 
to  pull  up  the  roots  of  my  life  and  transplant  them  five 
thousand  miles  away  on  the  other  side  of  the  sea.  In 
simple  truth  the  invitation  to  the  ministry  of  the  City 
Temple  was  as  much  a  surprise  to  me  as  it  could  have 
been  to  anyone  else,  upsetting  all  my  plans  and  plunging 
me  into  an  agony  of  perplexity.  Unsought  and  unde- 
sired,  it  set  me  a  problem  hard  to  solve,  and  if  I  went  at 
last  it  was  due  less  to  my  own  wish  than  to  the  strategy  of 
friends,  whose  cunning  was  only  equalled  by  their  kind- 
ness.1 Indeed,  as  it  finally  turned  out,  I  twice  declined 
the  City  Temple  before  accepting  it,  and  I  should  never 
have  gone  at  all  had  it  not  been  for  the  war,  and  the  oppor- 
tunity which  it  offered  for  a  ministry  of  interpretation 
between  two  peoples  upon  whose  intelligent  friendship, 
as  I  had  long  believed,  the  future  freedom  and  security 
of  the  world  must  largely  depend. 

As  far  back  as  1894,  while  yet  a  lad,  I  had  read  an  essay 
by  Admiral  Mahan,  entitled  "Possibilities  of  Anglo- 
American  Reunion,"  and  it  had  deeply  stirred  me.  The 
author  rejoiced  in  the  unmistakable  growth  of  mutual 
kindly  feelings  between  the  two  peoples,  and  pointed  out 
that  "this  reviving  affection  well  might  fix  the  serious 
attention  of  those  who  watch  the  growth  of  world  ques- 
tions, recognising  how  far  imagination  and  sympathy  rule 
the  world."  He  emphasised  the  political  traditions  and 
moral  ideals  held  in  common  and,  above  all,  "that  singular 
combination  of  two  essential  but  opposing  factors — of 
individual  freedom  with  subjection  to  law."  Naturally, 
as  an  authority  on  sea  power,  the  writer  did  not  fail  to 

'Drawn  to  England  by  the  Shakespeare  Festivals,  and  having  agreed  to 
preach  for  a  month  in  the  City  Temple,  not  until  a  few  days  before  sailing 
did  I  know  that  the  people  of  the  Temple  actually  had  me  in  mind  for  their 
minister.  It  was  then  too  late  to  cancel  the  engagement,  and  it  made  an 
embarrassing  situation.  No  sooner  had  I  landed  than  an  article  appeared  in 
the  Westminister  Gazette  entitled  "Preaching  'With  a  View,' "  which,  if  it 
bad  a  semblance  of  truth  on  the  surface,  was  very  far  from  the  fact,  at 
I  stated  in  my  first  sermon  in  the  Temple.  The  sermons  of  the  summer 
were  published  in  a  volume  entitled,  "An  Ambassador." 


A  PULPIT  ROMANCE  15 

touch  that  aspect  of  the  matter,  but  only  to  show  that  the 
two  peoples  had  not  yet  realised  that  their  interests  on 
the  sea  are,  in  fact,  identical.  For  that  reason,  while 
"desirous  as  anyone  can  be  to  see  the  fact  accomplished," 
Admiral  Mahan  rejected  the  project  as  premature;  and 
he  said  it  would  remain  so,  "antecedent  to  the  great 
teacher,  Experience"  because  neither  nation  as  yet  realised 
the  common  interest.  "The  ground,"  he  concluded,  "is 
not  yet  prepared  in  the  hearts  and  understandings  of 
Americans,  and  I  doubt  whether  in  those  of  British 
citizens." 

Much  happened  between  1894  and  1916  to  prepare  the 
ground  in  respect  of  Anglo-American  friendship,  both  in 
the  world  at  large  and  in  my  own  heart.  As  a  student, 
greatly  daring,  I  made  bold  to  discuss  the  question  with 
the  late  John  Fiske;  or  rather,  I  heard  him  discuss  it. 
Anyone  who  ever  talked  with  that  remarkable  man  knows 
that  all  one  had  to  do  was  to  ask  a  question — and  listen. 
It  was  like  turning  on  a  faucet,  releasing  a  stream  of 
brilliant  talk,  and  when  he  had  finished  there  was  little 
left  to  be  said  on  the  subject.  Later,  while  arranging 
with  Goldwin  Smith,  in  his  beautiful  home,  The  Grange, 
in  Toronto,  for  an  introduction  to  my  volume  on  "Lincoln 
and  Herndon" — an  engagement,  alas,  which  death  did  not 
permit  him  to  fulfil — once  more  I  heard  the  destiny  of 
English-speaking  peoples  dealt  with  by  one  of  the  ablest 
publicists  of  his  day,  whose  knowledge  was  as  thorough 
as  his  vision  was  prophetic.  Studies  such  as  these,  with 
much  reading  of  history,  made  it  clear  to  me,  when  the 
war  broke  out,  that  "the  great  teacher,  Experience,"  had 
at  last  begun  to  do  his  work ;  and  I  had  hope,  in  spite  of 
appearances,  that  the  vision  of  men  like  Chamberlain  and 
John  Hay,  to  name  no  others,  might  at  last  be  followed 
and  obeyed. 

America,  in  1916,  was  still  officially  neutral,  but  it 


16          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

seemed  plain  that  our  Republic  would  finally  take  its  place 
and  do  its  part  in  keeping  the  public  law  and  order  of  the 
world.  If  such  an  event  lay  in  the  lap  of  the  gods,  it 
would  come  in  the  fulness  of  time,  be  the  date  near  or  far. 
In  any  event  there  would  be  need  for  a  ministry  of  inter- 
pretation between  one  people  and  another,  and  the  ideal 
place  for  such  a  service  was  the  City  Temple,  in  whose 
pulpit  more  American  voices  had  been  heard,  from  the 
days  of  Beecher  down,  than  in  any  shrine  in  England. 
Such  was  the  spirit  and  motive  with  which  I  went  to 
England  in  June,  1916,  as  an  Ambassador  of  Goodwill 
from  the  churches  of  America  to  the  churches  of  Britain ; 
and  it  was  a  joy  to  learn  that  the  invitation  extended  to 
me  was  in  fact  intended  to  be  an  overture  of  goodwill  to 
America. 


H 

New  York,  seen  from  the  Harbor,  is  a  great  picture 
indeed,  and  when  the  fog  lifts  and  the  sunlight  falls  upon 
it  in  splendour  it  looks  like  a  fairy  city  built  in  a  dream. 
Its  architecture  is  as  ambitious  as  the  Tower  of  Babel, 
which  is  a  symbol  of  its  polyglot  population.  For  an 
inlander  like  myself  the  sea  was  a  thing  of  wonder  and 
mystery,  at  once  a  fact  and  a  symbol ;  and  though  I  have 
crossed  it  many  times  since — seven  times  during  the  war, 
when  lightning  slumbered  in  its  waves — it  has  lost  none 
of  the  spell  which  it  cast  over  me  the  first  time  I  set  sail 
upon  its  bosom.  No  words  may  ever  hope  to  tell  the 
feelings  of  a  man  when  for  the  first  time  he  leaves  his 
native  land  and  turns  to  the  open  sea,  sailing  out  over 
the  blue  rim  of  the  world !  From  my  Diary  of  those  days, 
which  fills  the  following  pages,  I  venture  to  transcribe, 
first,  these  lines  written  on  the  sea: 


A  PULPIT  ROMANCE  17 

June  2oth,  1916: — "The  sea  is  His,  and  He  made  it." 
All  day  long  the  great  words  of  the  Bible  about  the  sea 
have  been  coming  to  mind,  with  meanings  I  had  never 
guessed  before.  "There  is  sorrow  upon  the  sea:  it  can- 
not be  still" — what  words  they  are  as  one  looks  out  upon 
these  restless,  reinless  waters !  And  there  are  those  other 
words,  so  freighted  with  meaning  just  now :  "And  the 
sea  gave  up  the  dead  that  were  in  it" ;  but  best  of  all  the 
line  of  the  Psalmist,  "Thy  way,  O  Lord,  is  in  the  sea." 

Truly,  if  I  were  a  rich  Pagan  instead  of  a  poor  Chris- 
tian, I  would  build  a  temple  to  the  sea.  It  is  so  patient 
and  strong  to  ship  or  soul  that  bravely  casts  loose  upon 
its  mighty  promises ;  so  variable  and  stern  to  the  unpiloted 
and  unseaworthy.  It  is  a  great  burden  bearer.  It  can- 
not be  overloaded.  It  never  breaks  down.  It  never  grows 
weary.  It  never  needs  repairs.  It  is  not  only  a  helper, 
but  a  teacher  and  friend.  It  rests  the  eye  with  its  vast- 
ness  and  its  infinite  variety.  It  calms  the  heart  with  its 
never-ending  music.  It  speaks  to  the  mind  of  that  Divine 
depth  over  which  the  mystics  brood,  but  never  fathom. 
It  is  responsive  to  every  mood — now  sad,  now  troubled, 
now  quietly  meditative,  now  bright  with  what  the  Greeks 
called  its  "inextinguishable  laughter."  It  preaches  more 
sermons  than  all  preachers ;  and  as  we  listen,  the  sighs  of 
human  care  are  lost  in  the  murmur  of  its  many  waters. 

June  22nd: — Why  did  St.  John  leave  the  sea  out  of  his 
vision  of  heaven?  No  doubt  the  exile  of  Patmos,  long- 
ing for  the  sight  of  familiar  faces,  grew  a-weary  of  the 
imprisoning  sea.  Sundered  by  leagues  of  tumbling  waters 
from  the  sorely  tried  little  church  he  loved,  he  dreamed 
of  a  land  where  there  would  be  "no  more  sea."  But  it  is 
not  so  now.  Once  a  symbol  of  separation,  the  sea  has 
become  a  bond  between  lands  and  peoples.  The  sea  in  the 
Bible,  like  the  sea  of  which  Homer  sang,  is  the  unknown, 
untamed  sea.  To-day  we  sail  a  sea  whose  ways  and  winds 


18          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

are  known,  and  whose  forces  have  yielded  to  the  power 
of  intelligence. 

Still,  Matthew  Arnold  speaks  of  an  "unplumbed,  salt, 
estranging  sea,"  by  which  he  means  the  awful  isolation 
of  each  soul  in  an  unfathomable  universe.  More  often 
in  English  poetry — and,  indeed,  in  all  poetry,  since  Homer, 
that  has  in  it  the  sound  of  the  sea — its  tidal  rhythms,  its 
measured  waves  and  measureless  horizons,  have  been 
symbols  of  the  deep,  mysterious  thoughts  of  God ;  as  the 
stars  round  off  the  three  divisions  of  the  "Divine  Com- 
edy." The  music  of  this  deeper  sea  rolls  through  all  great 
poetry,  and  nowhere  with  more  melody  than  in  Shake- 
speare, who  caught  the  very  cadence  of  that  eternal  sea 
whose  waves  are  years  and  whose  depth  is  eternity. 

June  24th: — How  can  a  man  be  irreligious  on  the  sea? 
Are  we  not,  all  of  us,  out  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep,  with 
the  Infinite  above  and  beneath  us  ?  We  feel  secure  enough, 
thanks  largely  to  the  cheerful  company,  the  dear  faces, 
and  the  duties  and  pieties  of  the  day.  Still,  when  we  look 
over  the  edge  of  the  ship,  up  starts  that  primitive  terror 
which  only  faith  can  allay.  Religion  is  a  thing  of  the 
depths  and  for  the  depths.  "Have  mercy  upon  me,  O 
Lord;  my  boat  is  small,  and  Thine  ocean  is  great" — was 
the  prayer  of  the  old  Breton  fisherman;  and  it  has  in  it 
the  profound  instinct  which  lies  at  the  heart  of  faith. 
There  will  be  companies  of  believing  souls  so  long  as 
there  are  deep,  unplumbed  places  in  this  life  of  ours. 

Last  night  I  sat  up  on  the  deck  of  the  ship  near  the 
prow,  at  midnight,  long  after  others  had  gone  below.  It 
was  "a  clear,  cool  night  of  stars,"  and  the  great  sea  lay 
spread  out  beneath.  Never  did  the  old  words,  "What  is 
man,  that  Thou  art  mindful  of  him,"  come  home  to  me 
with  such  awful  majesty  of  simple  truth  to  subdue  the 
heart  and  still  it.  Then  the  ship  bell  rang  out  the  hour, 
and  the  watchman  from  above  cried,  "All's  well,"  and  I 


A  PULPIT  ROMANCE  19 

went  to  my  couch  knowing  that  if  I  sank  it  would  not 
be  into  the  sea,  but  beyond  it ! 

June  27th: — England!  It  is  like  a  picture  in  a  story- 
book, beautiful  in  its  sea-girt  island  glory,  albeit  now 
encircled  by  foes ;  a  Blessed  Island,  for  a  thousand  years 
the  home  and  the  fortress  of  a  wise  and  ordered  liberty. 
How  lovely  it  is  in  the  vivid  green  of  its  summer  garb, 
and  so  dainty  withal,  like  a  well-kept  park;  its  people  so 
kindly,  so  soft-voiced,  so  considerate — the  most  courteous 
people  in  the  world.  It  seems  more  than  half  like  home 
to  me;  its  spirit  is  in  my  blood,  its  great  souls  are  among 
my  heroes,  its  singers  are  my  teachers. 

London  is  like  a  dream  come  true.  As  I  ramble  through 
it  I  am  haunted  by  the  curious  feeling  of  something  half- 
forgotten,  but  still  dimly  remembered,  like  a  reminiscence 
of  some  previous  state  of  existence.  It  is  at  once  familiar 
and  strange.  Passing  from  New  York  to  London  is  like 
going  from  a  foot-ball  team  to  a  faculty  meeting — from 
noisy  youth  to  quiet  middle  age.  New  York  is  new, 
spacious,  graceful;  London,  with  its  monotonous  and 
melancholy  houses,  seems  like  an  inharmonious  patchwork, 
as  if  pieced  together  without  design.  Yet  it  is  lovable  in 
its  sprawling  confusion,  and  as  I  stepped  out  of  Euston 
Station  I  saw  a  procession  of  women  workers  march  by 
with  swinging  step,  with  gay  uniforms,  jaunty  hats,  and 
plumes  a-nodding — what  would  their  great-grandmothers 
have  thought  if  they  had  seen  it! 

Soldiers,  sailors,  nurses,  ambulances  are  everywhere; 
one  steps  out  of  a  time-stained  church — like  the  Temple, 
where  poor  "Noll"  found  rest — into  an  air  athrill  with 
the  sense  of  a  vast  tragedy  only  a  few  miles  away.  Lon- 
don in  war-times,  subdued,  suffering,  heroic,  a  museum 
of  history  and  a  hive  of  industry;  its  people  cemented  by 
one  spirit  of  service ;  all  ranks  vowed  to  one  motto,  "Every 
man  do  his  bit — and  stick  it" — how  unlike  America  where 


20          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

the  war  is  a  far  off  echo,  as  if  raging  on  another  planet, 
and  where  opinion  and  sympathy  are  so  tragically  divided ! 

June  soth: — Went  to  St.  Paul's  yesterday,  and  after 
the  service  wandered  for  hours  in  the  recesses  of  the 
cathedral.  Descending  into  the  crypt,  one  looks  upon  the 
tomb  of  Nelson,  the  mighty  lord  of  the  sea,  and  the  sleep- 
ing place  of  Wellington,  the  great  commander  of  the 
British  race.  Lord  Roberts  rests  a  few  feet  away.  Here 
sleep  the  artists — as  the  poets  are  honoured  in  the  Abbey 
— among  them  Wren,  the  builder.  He  was  a  master 
genius,  and  yet,  somehow,  his  masterpiece  and  monument 
does  not  leave  upon  me  a  profound  religious  impression. 
None  of  his  churches  thrill  me.  St.  Paul's  is  massive  and 
magnificent,  but  intellectual  rather  than  spiritual.  The 
work  of  a  brilliant  man  in  a  brilliant  age,  it  lacks  that 
ineffable  thing  which  one  can  neither  define  nor  resist. 

What  a  different  impression  one  receives  at  the  Abbey, 
where  I  attended  the  afternoon  service  to-day.  Stately, 
austerely  beautiful  in  the  autumn  sunlight,  it  is  a  home 
of  that  Eternal  Loveliness  which  breaks  the  heart — and 
mends  it.  For  an  hour  before  the  service  I  sat  thinking 
of  the  mighty  dead  who  sleep  there — thinking  how  those 
pillars  have  stood  through  all  the  nights  and  days,  through 
peace  and  war,  for  ages.  Truly,  "time,  the  white  god, 
makes  all  things  holy,  and  what  is  old  becomes  religion." 
I  sat  in  the  Poet's  Corner,  where  Tennyson  sleeps  side 
by  side  with  Browning,  and  the  effigy  of  Shakespeare  has 
the  bust  of  Burns  near  by.  What  a  wonderful  organ,  now 
soft  as  the  prayer  of  a  child,  now  eloquent  as  thunder  in 
the  mountains.  If  one  cannot  pray  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
where  men  have  prayed  for  centuries,  and  where  the 
echoes  of  voices  long  hushed  still  cling  to  its  arches,  he 
cannot  pray  at  all.  Who  can  measure  the  influence  of 
such  a  building,  enshrining  so  many  historic  memories, 
the  dust  of  great  men,  and  the  tradition  of  ages  of  patri- 


A  PULPIT  ROMANCE  21 

otism  and  prayer !  It  stands  for  order  in  the  streets,  for 
order  in  the  land,  for  order  in  the  secret  places  of  the 
soul. 

July  2nd: — On  a  white  marble  tablet  in  the  vestibule  of 
the  City  Temple  are  recorded  some  of  the  traditions  of 
the  church,  as  follows :  "The  church  assembling  here  was 
founded  in  1640  by  the  Rev.  Thomas  Goodwin,  D.D., 
preacher  of  the  council  of  state,  president  of  Magdalen 
College,  Oxford;  member  of  the  Westminster  Assembly 
of  Divines,  chaplain  to  Oliver  Crohiwell.  The  church 
first  met  in  Anchor  Lane,  Thames  street;  thence  removed 
in  1672  to  Paved  Alley,  Lime  street;  thence  in  1675  to 
Miles  Lane;  thence  in  1766  to  Camomile  street;  from 
thence  in  1819,  under  the  ministry  of  Rev.  John  Clayton, 
to  Poultry,  Cheapside,  and  thence  in  1873,  under  the 
ministry  of  Joseph  Parker,  D.D.,  to  the  southwestern  end 
of  Holborn  Viaduct.  This  tablet  is  erected  to  perpetuate 
the  memory  of  her  venerable  and  illustrious  founder." 

It  is  not  the  oldest  church  of  its  faith  in  London,  but 
it  is  to-day,  as  in  the  days  of  its  forefathers,  a  fountain- 
head  of  fraternal  righteousness,  religious  freedom,  and 
national  inspiration.  The  City  Temple,  as  it  now  stands, 
was  opened  on  May  I9th,  1874,  exactly  one  year  after 
the  corner  stone  was  laid;  and  it  is  not  only  spacious — 
seating  nearly  three  thousand — but  responsive  to  the 
slightest  inflection  from  the  communion  altar  to  the  fres- 
coed panels  near  the  roof,  whence  the  mighty  names  of 
the  leaders  of  the  Free  Churches  in  English  history — 
Cromwell,  Bunyan,  Wesley,  Whitefield,  and  Spurgeon — 
look  down  to  awe  and  to  inspire.  As  I  climbed  its  long, 
winding  pulpit  stairs  yesterday,  I  thought  of  all  who  have 
knelt  in  that  Place  of  Hearing,  and  they  seemed  to  have 
left  something  of  themselves  in  return  for  the  blessing 
they  received. 


22          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

July  8th: — By  the  kindness  of  a  Member  of  Parliament, 
I  attended  a  sitting  of  the  House  of  Commons  to-day — 
having  first  been  shown  the  beauties  of  the  Parliament 
Buildings.  It  was  most  interesting,  the  more  because  we 
have  nothing  in  our  American  Congress  like  the  Question 
Hour.  Any  member  can  ask  the  Government  any  ques- 
tion, for  information  or  opinion,  and  that  offers  critics 
full  opportunity  for  grilling  their  opponents.  The  Irish, 
especially,  are  in  their  glory  at  Question  time.  They  have 
sharp  tongues,  as  when  one  asked  a  member  of  the  Gov- 
ernment if  he  was  not  aware  that  the  House  of  Lords 
"is  a  cross  between  a  morgue  and  an  old  curiosity  shop." 
My  impression  of  the  hour  was  that  only  two  questions 
were  asked  from  a  real  desire  for  information. 

The  air  of  the  House  seemed  tense,  and  in  the  debate 
which  followed  the  Question  Hour  it  was  surcharged 
with  electricity.  The  debate  had  to  do  with  Ireland,  in 
regard  to  which  the  Government  was  accused  of  treachery ; 
and  there  were  echoes  of  the  Easter  rebellion.  John  Red- 
mond spoke  very  ably,  but  as  a  broken-hearted  man,  I 
thought.  The  tone  of  hopelessness  was  unmistakable.  He 
was  followed  by  Sir  Edward  Carson,  a  bull-dog  kind  of 
man,  in  whom  one  felt  something  hard,  unyielding,  un- 
gracious. It  was  a  rare  treat  to  hear  the  Prime  Minister, 
Mr.  Asquith — a  short,  firmly  built  man,  with  white  hair, 
ruddy  face,  and  blue  eyes.  His  manner  was  tantalisingly 
deliberate,  as  if  he  were  weighing  each  word  with  care; 
his  style  lucid  and  lawyer-like,  with  no  gleam  of  fire.  Mr. 
Balfour  was  very  impressive.  Tall,  graceful,  with  beauti- 
ful dark  eyes,  he  spoke  with  a  dignity,  a  finish,  a  courtesy, 
an  ease  which  captivated  the  House.  After  the  debate  we 
took  tea  on  the  Terrace,  where  I  met  a  number  of  distin- 
guished Members,  among  them  John  Burns,  with  whom 
it  was  a  joy  to  talk  on  the  banks  of  the  river  which  he 
once  described  as  "Liquid  'istory." 


A  PULPIT  ROMANCE  23 

July  loth: — Until  recently,  it  seems,  there  has  oeen  very 
little  interest  in  America  in  England,  outside  official  circles 
— save  an  amused  interest  of  those  who  affect  to  think  our 
Republic  a  Cub  of  the  British  Lion.  The  characteristic 
attitude  is  that  nothing  worthy  of  attention  has  ever  been 
done  or  said  off  this  Island.  This  attitude  lingers — by 
force  of  habit — though  the  war  has  shaken  it,  temporarily. 
At  tea  to-day  Charles  Garvice,  the  story-writer,  put  it 
aptly:  "It  would  not  be  a  bad  thing  if  we  abandoned 
the  habit  of  behaving  as  if  God  first  made  Englishmen 
and  then,  in  a  moment  of  aberration,  created  the  rest  of 
mankind  out  of  what  was  left  over."  No  doubt  he  is 
right  in  saying  that  the  arrogance  of  the  English  is  largely 
unconscious — due,  he  thinks,  to  the  influence  of  the  Public 
Schools,  which  are  not  public  at  all  in  our  sense,  but  aris- 
tocratic and  exclusive.  Anyway,  it  is  unfortunate.  Often 
I  think  the  most  deadly  word  in  English  is,  "Really"  and 
the  peculiar  inflection  with  which  it  is  uttered.  As  one 
first  hears  it,  it  is  an  audible  sneer,  freezing  the  genial 
currents  of  the  soul.  It  takes  time  to  learn  that  it  has 
no  such  meaning,  but  is  a  kind  of  shield  to  protect  the 
native  reserve  and  dislike  of  emotion. 

After  all,  there  is  a  deep  difference  between  Englishmen 
and  Americans — a  difference  quickly  felt,  but  hard  to 
define.  It  belongs  to  the  region  of  temperament — far 
below  variations  of  manner,  custom,  and  accent.  Our 
ideas  and  institutions  are  much  the  same,  but  there  is  a 
distinct  difference  in  emphasis  and  interpretation.  One 
feels  this  difference  in  many  details  everywhere,  and  it 
makes  one  ask  the  question:  do  we,  can  we  understand 
each  other?  How  can  an  Oxford  Don  and  a  Hoosier 
school-master  ever  know  one  another?  One  is  reticent 
— did  not  Heine  say  that  silence  is  "conversation  with  an 
Englishman?" — incased  in  pretended  indifference;  the 
other  frank,  talkative,  approachable,  and  approaching. 


24  PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

Yet  they  are  the  same  kind  of  men  living  in  different 
environments,  moulded  by  divergent  developments.  Just 
now,  of  course,  there  is  irritation  against  America,  and 
the  average  Briton  thinks  we  have  betrayed  humanity  for 
dollars — knowing  nothing  of  our  history,  policy,  or  spirit. 
But  when  that  has  passed  away — if  it  ever  does — will 
there  ever  be  real  understanding  between  us  ? 

July  i$th: — A  soldier  has  been  explaining  to  me  the 
extraordinary  medley  of  humour,  prayer  and  profanity  so 
common  at  the  Front.  All  blasphemy,  he  argued,  implies 
a  kind  of  belief;  no  man  to-day  takes  the  name  of  Odin 
in  vain.  The  man  in  the  trenches  who  breaks  out  in 
thrilling  blasphemies  against  God  and  Christianity  and 
the  parsons,  means  nothing  personal.  It  is  merely  the 
contradiction  of  Christ  and  the  Kaiser  that  is  twisting 
his  insides,  as  if  he  said  to  himself,  "I  believe  in  God 
Almighty — and  my  pal,  a  good-living  lad,  has  just  been 
blown  to  bits;  God  is  love — and  the  Boches  crucified  the 
sergeant-major ;  peace  on  earth — and  I  stuck  one  through 

with  my  bayonet,  and  this  d war  never  ends."  How 

the  tears  must  stand  bright  in  the  eyes  of  the  Master,  as 
He  hears  it  all.  If  He  sometimes  sobs,  He  must  some- 
times laugh  the  large,  loving  laughter  of  God.  If  those 
lads  could  see  Him  they  would  say :  "Sorry,  Sir ;  we  did 
not,  of  course,  mean  it.  We  will  carry  on."  In  the  same 
way  he  interprets  the  unnatural  gaiety  which  has  puzzled 
so  many.  Men  in  the  trenches  learn  to  live  a  moment  at  a 
time — they  may  not  be  alive  the  next  moment — and  the 
reaction  is  an  explosion  of  "insane  gaiety."  Pent  up  feel- 
ing must  find  vent,  and  the  more  rollicking  the  farce  at 
the  theatre,  the  greater  the  jam.  So  he  explained,  and  I 
have  seen  enough  to  understand. 

July  22nd: — What  a  day  of  privilege!  Lunched  with 
Donald  Hankey,  whose  little  book  of  essays,  "A  Student 
in  Arms,"  is  the  most  inspired  interpretation  of  the  pri- 


25 

vate  soldier  yet  written.  Nor  do  I  wonder  at  it,  after  meet- 
ing him.  Modest,  with  a  hesitating  courtesy  of  address, 
there  is  something  haunting  about  the  lad,  something 
lovely  and  simple  and  strong.  He  agreed  that  perhaps 
he  had  painted  military  life  in  too  rosy  a  colour,  and  he 
promised  that  he  would  show  the  other  side  later.  One 
feels  that  he  knows  the  way  to  Emmaus,  and  that  when 
he  wrote  of  "The  Beloved  Captain,"  he  wrote  out  of  his 
heart,  as  frankly  as  he  talked  to  me.  When  I  think  of 
a  man  like  that  serving  as  a  target  for  bullets,  or  flounder- 
ing in  the  muddy,  lousy  trenches,  I  understand  why  the 
boys  at  the  front  pray  in  one  breath  and  swear  in  the  next. 

Took  tea  with  Dr.  Thomas  Masaryk,  of  Bohemia,  for- 
merly member  of  the  Austrian  Parliament.  He  is  here 
in  exile  with  a  price  on  his  head.  His  daughter,  Miss 
Olga,  is  with  him.  At  the  suggestion  of  mutual  Bohemian 
friends  in  America,  he  is  a  worshipper  at  the  City  Temple 
— albeit  a  Unitarian  in  faith.  Never  in  my  life  have  I 
had  a  more  vivid  intuition  of  the  moral  greatness  of  any 
man.  No  doubt  my  long  admiration  of  him  prepared  the 
way,  but  it  was  an  overwhelming  impression  of  char- 
acter, and  of  intellectual  veracity.  If  Bohemia  wins  her 
freedom,  he  ought  to  be  the  first  president.  He  is  not 
only  the  greatest  living  man  of  his  nation — alike  for  moral 
idealism  and  intellectual  realism — but  he  is  entitled  to  all 
honour  by  virtue  of  his  service  to  his  people.1 

July  2 4th: — Went  down  Dorking  way  to-day,  where  the 
creeping  Mole  winds  its  way  between  Box  Hill  and  the 
park  lands  of  Norbury.  Stopping  at  the  Inn  near  Bur  ford 
Bridge — where  Stevenson  rested  for  a  time,  and  Keats 
wrote  a  part  of  "Endymion" — my  mecca  was  Box  Hill, 


JL    icau    luc    iaicu    line,       xviueu    ID    acuuu    uu    me    oumme,    vscwvcr    imf»,    iy*o> 

Something  high  and  fine  and  lovely  went  with  him  out  of  the  world.  Later  I 
saw  much  of  Dr.  Masaryk  and  his  daughter.  Miss  Olga;  and  one  of  the  few 
happy  results  of  a  horrible  war  and  an  equally  horrible  peace,  was  that  he  was 
elected  President  for  life  of  the  Czecho- Slovak  Republic. 


26          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

where  Meredith  "learned  to  live  much  in  the  spirit  and 
to  see  the  brightness  on  the  other  side  of  life."  He  was 
a  great  teacher  for  whom  life  was  at  once  a  discipline 
and  a  delight — despite  its  heart-shaking  tragedy — and  he 
taught  us  a  brave  sanity  in  gem-like  words.  By  bringing 
joyous  youth  and  crabbed  age  together  he  made  the  dis- 
covery, one  of  the  happiest  ever  made,  that  "wits  and 
passions  join  to  rear  the  temple  of  the  credible  God." 
Over  our  cheap  cynicisms  and  sickly  sentimentalisms  he 
poured  showers  of  silvery  laughter;  and  he  knew  that 
there  is  more  wisdom  in  a  whispered  prayer  than  in  all 
the  philosophies.  The  discipline  of  the  body  by  the  mind, 
loyalty  to  reason,  and  altruism  for  the  future  of  the  race 
— it  was  a  goodly  gospel.  He  lived  with  "the  rapture 
of  the  forward  view,"  prophesying  of  "those  nobler  races, 
now  dimly  imagined."  For  me  his  haunts  are  holy 
ground,  and  these  are  days  to  remember  how,  in  an  hour 
of  desolating  bereavement,  he  found  strength  and  renewal 
of  soul  in  the  vision  of  a  wild  cherry  tree  grappling  the 
rocks  and  lifting  its  white  banner  to  the  sun.  It  spoke 
to  him  of  the  divine  hope,  that,  no  less  than  tears,  dwells 
in  mortal  things. 

Full  lasting  is  the  song,  though  he, 
The  singer,  passes. 

July  26th: — No  one  can  spend  even  a  few  hours  in 
Bedford  without  knowing  that  it  is  the  city  of  John 
Bunyan.  The  old  idyl  of  English  life,  which  he  wedded 
to  allegory,  is  still  there,  though  a  group  of  poor  women 
whom  I  saw  sitting  at  a  door  in  the  sun  were  not  talking 
"about  the  things  of  God,"  like  the  group  engaged  in 
heavenly  gossip  of  whom  Bunyan  tells  in  "Grace  Abound- 
ing." Therein  lies  a  deep  difference  between  his  day  and 
our  own.  One  often  wonders  why  Bunyan  thought  him- 
self such  a  vile  sinner,  confessing  that  he  had  been  both 


A  PULPIT  ROMANCE  27 

a  liar  and  a  blasphemer.  His  "lies,"  I  would  go  bail,  were 
wild  fictions  told  for  fun,  and  his  "fancy  swearing"  must 
have  been  a  kind  of  literary  safety-valve,  in  those  days 
when  he  played  cat  on  Elstow  Green.  His  sinfulness  was 
more  imaginative  than  real,  reminding  one  of  the  pawky 
Scot  who  said  of  Dr.  Alexander  Whyte,  who  dwelt  much 
on  the  fact  of  sin,  that  if  he  had  business  dealings  with 
the  Doctor,  and  believed  half  the  evil  things  he  said  of 
himself,  the  terms  would  have  to  be  strictly  "cash  on 
delivery."  Are  we  worse  to-day  for  not  seeing  the  Abyss 
open  beside  our  arm-chairs,  as  Bunyan  did  ?  Surely  not. 
Nor  does  the  Christian  of  to-day  start  for  the  City  Beauti- 
ful alone,  leaving  his  wife  and  children  behind.  But  the 
Tinker  was  a  great  master  of  character,  and  one  looks 
for  Bunyan  people  everywhere,  as  one  looks  for  Dickens' 
characters  in  London.  In  Bedford  his  memorials  are 
on  every  hand.  Often  I  have  imagined  a  meeting  be- 
tween Izaak  Walton  and  Bunyan — two  men  who  were 
made  to  like,  but  not  to  convert,  each  other. 

July  27th: — Spoke  to  the  Press  Club  to-day  noon,  giv- 
ing my  impressions  of  the  differences  between  English 
and  American  journalism — Lord  Northcliffe  presiding. 
The  London  papers  are  small  now,  to  be  sure — except  The 
Times,  which  is  unique  among  all  the  journals  of  the 
earth — owing  to  lack  of  paper  and  lack  of  labour.  Half 
the  men  from  Fleet  Street — the  Street  of  Ink — are  away 
at  the  war.  English  papers  are  much  better  written  than 
our  American  papers — though  our  magazine  literature  is 
incomparably  the  best,  and  better  printed.  They  serve 
the  news  in  more  compact  form  and  more  lucid  style. 
Some  of  the  war  correspondents  are  very  remarkable, 
especially  Gibbs,  in  whose  articles  one  feels  a  touch  of  a 
great  pity,  as  of  one  who  writes  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  lads  in  the  trenches.  The  editorial  page  has  more 
influence  in  England  than  with  us,  though  it  has  suffered 


28          PREACHING  IN  LONDON, 

decline,  I  am  told,  on  this  side.  Men  of  letters  write  more 
frequently  for  the  daily  press  than  in  America.  Wells, 
Bennett,  Shaw,  Chesterton,  and  Prof.  Murray,  are  fre- 
quent contributors  on  questions  of  vital  public  interest 
Mr.  A.  G.  Gardiner,  of  the  Daily  News — who  has  the  dis- 
tinction of  being  known  by  his  initials — is  perhaps  the 
ablest  editorial  essayist.  We  have  no  one  like  him,  unless 
it  be  Henry  Watterson.  Some  of  the  papers,  like  the 
Morning  Post  and  John  Bull,  to  name  two  far  apart,  never 
miss  an  opportunity  of  shooting  an  arrow  of  irony  at 
America.  Anyway,  the  press  has  been  very  kind  to  me, 
excepting  a  few  stray  shots  by  snipers  in  the  penny-dread- 
fuls. 

After  a  wonderful  month — wonderful  for  me  at  least 
— the  City  Temple  church  invited  me  to  become  its  minis- 
ter; and  I  took  the  matter  under  advisement.  Unfortu- 
nately the  church  was  divided,  not  in  regard  to  myself, 
but  concerning  issues  which  had  arisen  before  my  name 
had  ever  been  associated  with  it.  Happily  I  received  an- 
other invitation,  the  acceptance  of  which  was  attended 
by  no  difficulty  of  decision.  It  fluttered  down  upon  my 
desk  from  Scotland  as  follows : 

O  come  awa',  O  come  awa', 
Strang  brither  o'  the  West-Ian', 
Altho'  we  hinna  meikle  gear, 
Yer  welcome  ter  our  best,  man. 
Auld  Scotia's  bens  an'  glens  cry  oot 
A  greetin'  tae  the  West-man, 
An'  honest  herts  an'  f  rien'ly  ban's 
But  wish  ye  wad  then  test,  man; 
O  come  awa',  syne  come  awa', 
An'  be  our  luckie  guest,  man. 

How  could  anyone  resist?  So  I  went  for  a  flying  visit 
to  Scotland,  by  way  of  the  flat  fields  and  dingy  cities  of 


A  PULPIT  ROMANCE  29 

the  English  Midlands;  and  I  do  not  wonder  that  Ruskin 
railed  at  them.  A  little  way  brought  us  to  Rugby;  an- 
other little  way  and  we  were  among  the  slag  heaps  about 
Lichfield  and  Tamworth,  where  dwell  the  miners.  A 
row  of  blackened,  stunted  trees  heralded  Crewe,  whence 
we  passed  over  "the^peak  country"  into  Yorkshire,  and 
after  crossing  the  wide  moorland  district  of  Cumberland, 
we  entered  the  Eden  Valley  of  "Merrie  Carlile."  By 
the  time  we  arrived  at  Dumfries  an  old  ancestor  has  risen 
up  in  me  saying,  "This  is  the  place  I  have  been  telling  you 
about" — the  land  of  Robert  Burns. 

Never  has  there  been  a  hospitality  more  generous  or 
more  genuine ;  never  a  courtesy  more  exquisitely  complete 
in  all  its  details.  When  I  rose  to  speak  in  Glasgow  a  great 
American  flag  was  unfurled,  and  the  audience  sang  our 
national  anthem.  Alas,  it  was  all  too  brief  a  stay,  but 
there  was  time  for  a  glimpse  of  Loch  Lomond  and  the 
Clyde,  and  it  was  like  an  hour  of  enchantment  to  see 
Edinburgh  at  night.  Above,  giant  searchlights  scanned 
the  sky,  darting  like  shining  swords  through  the  clouds, 
as  if  stabbing  at  airy  enemies,  while  the  moonlight  shim- 
mered over  the  bald-headed  hills  and  filled  the  valleys  with 
silver.  From  whatever  side  one  approaches  Edinburgh 
it  is  singularly  picturesque,  with  its  happy  blend  of  hill 
and  sea,  of  rocky  peaks  and  lofty  spires.  Having  ex- 
plored the  Castle,  St.  Giles,  and  Holyrood,  I  had  to  hurry 
away  down  the  East  Coast  to  catch  my  steamer  for 
America. 

At  home  I  found  my  friends  hopelessly  divided  in 
counsel ;  and  after  an  ordeal  of  indecision  I  declined  the 
City  Temple  absolutely.  Such  a  situation  would  have 
been  formidable  enough  in  my  own  country,  but  in  an- 
other land,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  great  war,  it  required 
courage  to  consider  it  at  all.  Later,  in  response  to  an 


30          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

ad  misericordiam  appeal  I  sent  a  letter  so  qualified  that  it 
seemed  impossible  that  it  could  be  interpreted  as  an  ac- 
ceptance. However,  it  was  so  interpreted  and  announced, 
and  the  die  was  cast. 


II:  Joseph  Parker 


II 

Joseph  Parker 

(It  is  not  inappropriate  to  include  here  an  impression  of  the 
founder  and  first  Minister  of  the  City  Temple.  The  church 
now  known  as  the  City  Temple  dates  back  to  1641,  its  first  min- 
ister being  Dr.  Thomas  Goodwin,  the  favourite  preacher  of 
Oliver  Cromwell.  But  it  owes  its  present  name  and  location  to 
Dr.  Parker,  and  as  such  is  a  monument  to  his  genius.  A  similar 
sketch  of  Dr.  R.  J.  Campbell  may  be  found  in  a  volume  entitled, 
"Some  Living  Masters  of  the  Pulpit."  The  present  minister  of 
the  City  Temple  is  the  Rev.  F.  W.  Norwood,  of  Australia,  who 
succeeded  to  the  pulpit  in  1920.) 

Unfortunately  it  was  never  my  privilege  to  see  or 
hear  Joseph  Parker,  but  in  the  home  of  my  boyhood  his 
name  had  a  place  of  honour.  As  his  journeys  to  America 
did  not  take  him  further  west  than  Chicago — where  he 
lectured  in  Music  Hall,  and  was  a  guest  of  David  Swing 
— and  never  into  the  South,  I  was  denied  what  would 
now  be  a  cherished  memory.  Unfortunately,  too,  no 
adequate  biography  of  him  exists,  which  is  matter  for 
deep  regret,  the  more  because  it  is  now  almost  too  late 
for  such  an  appraisal  to  find  response.  What  is  here 
written,  so  far  from  being  an  estimate,  is  only  a  series  of 
impressions  derived  from  his  books,  from  the  reports  of 
his  friends,  and  from  the  atmosphere  and  tradition  of  the 
City  Temple,  where  he  is  both  a  legend  and  a  presence. 

The  City  Temple,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  is  rich  in 
mementoes  of  Dr.  Parker,  the  marble  mosaic  pulpit,  a  gift 
of  the  Corporation  of  London,  being  in  fact  his  monu- 
ment. The  pulpit  Bible  which  he  used  is  still  there,  in  a 

33 


84          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

glass  case,  open  at  a  fly  leaf  whereon  are  written  the 
signatures  of  eminent  men  and  women  and  the  dates  of 
their  visits,  among  them  Beecher,  Gladstone,  Spurgeon, 
Lord  Shaftesbury,  and  Frances  Willard.  A  memorial 
window  to  Dr.  Parker  may  be  seen  near  the  southern  end 
of  the  west  wall  of  the  Temple,  and  is  inscribed  with  the 
words:  "He  was  mighty  in  the  scriptures."  Another 
window  commemorates  the  occasion  of  the  one  thou- 
sandth noonday  service  held  on  Thursday,  June  3Oth, 
1892,  which  was  perhaps  the  service  which  Dr.  Parker 
loved  best.  A  marble  bust  of  him,  presented  by  friends 
during  his  lifetime,  occupies  a  pedestal  in  the  vestibule, 
and  near  the  bust,  carved  on  a  block  of  white  marble  let 
into  the  wall,  is  the  text  of  the  first  sermon  which  he 
preached  in  the  City  Temple:  "So  Moses  finished  the 
work  and  the  glory  of  the  Lord  filled  the  tabernacle." 
(Ex.  40:33,  34)  But  more  potent  than  such  memorials 
in  stone  or  brass  is  the  echo  of  his  words  in  the  hearts 
of  men,  and  the  impress  of  that  prodigious  personality 
which  found  rest  only  where  he  could  have  found  it — 
or  wished  to  find  it — in  death,  at  his  "Tynhome,"  Lynd- 
hurst  Gardens,  Hampstead,  Nov.  28th,  1902. 

No  one  questions  that  Joseph  Parker  was  a  great 
preacher,  but  we  learn  very  little  from  that  fact,  because 
great  preachers  are  of  many  kinds;  chiefly  of  two  kinds. 
There  is  the  type  represented  by  men  like  Robertson  and 
Newman,  by  Bushnell  and  Munger,  to  which  we  may  add 
Tipple,  who  preached  such  sermons  as  Emerson  might 
have  preached  had  he  remained  in  the  pulpit,  and  whom 
Ruskin  called  "the  greatest  master  of  pulpit  prose."  * 

1  Not  much  is  known  of  Tipple  in  America;  only  his  "Spoken  Words  of 
Prayer  and  Praise"  has  been  published  here.  And  such  prayers!  They  are 
lyrics  singing  of  the  love  of  God  and  the  beauty  of  His  world — sun-bright  and 
attuned  to  the  songs  of  birds,  albeit  not  lacking  in  sympathy  for  the  struggle 
and  tragedy  of  life.  He  was  a  tiny  wisp  of  a  man,  shy  unspeakably,  but  with 
a  mind  full  of  benign  light,  whose  genius  drew  an  elect  audience,  never  large, 
from  all  parts  of  London  to  his  little  church  in  Norwood.  Only  three  vol- 
umes of  his  sermons  were  ever  published,  "Sunday  Mornings  at  Nor- 
wood," "The  Admiring  Guest,"  and  "Days  of  Old."  Except  for  an  appreciation 


JOSEPH  PARKER  35 

This  preacher  is  no  striking  orator.  He  can  never  be 
popular.  He  prevails  mightily,  but  it  is  by  the  depth  and 
vitality  of  his  ideas,  by  the  intensity  and  clarity  of  his 
vision  of  God,  and  by  the  form  and  beauty  which  he 
presses  into  the  service  of  his  vocation.  His  power  lies 
wholly  in  his  message  and  in  his  high  concern  to  utter  it. 
He  influences  men  deeply,  genetically,  and  remains  a  fer- 
tilising power  long  after  he  has  passed  away,  especially 
among  young  men  caught  up  into  his  vision.  Joseph 
Parker,  it  must  be  plain,  did  not  belong  in  that  category, 
but  rather  to  the  type  represented  by  Beecher,  Spurgeon, 
Phillips  Brooks  and  David  Swing — the  orator,  "the  mas- 
ter of  great  assemblies,  the  commander  of  the  assent  and 
homage  of  the  multitude."  This  preacher — sometimes  a 
scholar,  but  seldom  a  deep  thinker — is  picturesque  and 
noble,  fascinating  alike  for  his  power  and  his  charm,  and 
he  sways  men  as  the  wind  sways  the  clouds.  It  was  to 
this  order  of  prophecy  that  Joseph  Parker  belonged,  and 
his  genius  was  too  remarkable  to  be  obscured,  albeit 
marred,  at  times,  by  a  staginess  of  manner,  a  sensational- 
ism of  method,  and  a  colossal,  but  childishly  innocent, 
conceit. 

Whatever  theory  may  be  held  as  to  the  secret  of  pulpit 
inspiration  and  the  means  of  "striking  twelve"  in  every 
sermon,  Dr.  Parker  never  neglected  the  physical  basis  of 
it.  Indeed,  he  had  a  perfect  physique,  of  giant-like 
strength,  kept  taut  and  firm  by  a  discipline  austere  in  its 
rigour  and  regularity;  and  by  this  method  he  not  only 
kept  his  body  under  but  forged  passion  into  power.  The 
hot  bath,  the  cold  shower,  the  spare  meal,  the  cup  of  hot 
beef -tea,  all  immediately  before  entering  the  pulpit,  such 
was  his  method  of  securing  the  physical  glow  which  made 

of  _  him  which  I  wrote  at  the  time  of  his  retirement — published  in  Unity, 
edited  by  Jenkin  Lloyd  Jones — I  know  of  nothing  else  written  about  him  on 
this  side.  The  right  kind  of  a  book  about  Tipple,  with  letters  and  fragments, 
if  any  remain,  would  be  a  treasure. 


36          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

the  body  the  fit  instrument  of  the  glowing  mind :  and  the 
old  bath-tub  is  still  in  the  Temple.  No  man,  he  was  wont 
to  say,  ever  found  the  depth  of  his  mind  until  he  had 
found  the  length  of  his  body.  With  body  aglow  and  mind 
a-glitter,  no  wonder  live  messages  seemed  to  come  to  him 
and  use  him  as  the  preacher,  rather  than  the  preacher 
using  the  messages,  and  often  to  his  own  astonishment. 
Add  the  massive  leonine  head,  the  deep-set  eyes,  the  face 
so  bright  with  genius,  the  dramatic  elocution,  and  the 
marvellous  voice  which  he  knew  so  well  how  to  use,  rich 
in  its  risings  and  fallings,  haunting  in  its  flute-like 
cadences,  its  soft  whisperings,  wooings,  pleadings,  but,  if 
melting  in  pathos,  no  less  terrible  in  its  thunders,  its 
withering  scorn  and  its  scalding  sarcasm — and  one  may 
doubt  if  any  attentive  hearer  ever  forgot  a  service  in 
the  City  Temple.1 

Fortunately,  if  Dr.  Parker  had  the  oddities  of  genius, 
he  had  also  its  communicativeness,  and  we  know  not  only 
the  story  of  his  life  as  told  in  his  "Autobiography" — 
where  fact  and  fiction  are  all  mixed  up — but  his  method 
of  making  and  delivering  sermons.  Indeed,  he  was  al- 
ways lecturing  young  preachers,  both  to  their  joy  and 
profit,  and  the  burden  of  his  message  was,  "Preach  the 
gospel;  do  not  read  it!"  Therein  he  was  right,  for  a 
preacher  is  not  an  author  reading  his  manuscript;  he  is 

1  Dr.  Nicoll,  in  "Princes  of  the  Church,"  has  a  memorable  passage  descriptive 
of  the  preaching  of  Dr.  Parker:  "It  was  a  spiritual  wonder.  There  was  about 
it  the  touch  of  miracle.  Apparently  free  from  rule,  it  was  unconsciously  obedient 


ii  inc  tuucu  01  uuracic.      xvpparcimy   ircc   iruui   xuic,  it  waa  unconsciously  oueuicin 

to  the  great  principles  of  art.  As  you  listened  you  saw  deeper  meanings.  The 
horizon  lifted,  widened,  broadened — the  preacher  has  thrust  his  hand  among 
your  heartstrings.  You  heard  the  cry  of  life,  and  the  Christ  preached  as  the 
answer  to  that  cry.  The  preacher  had  every  gift.  He  was  mystical,  poetical, 
ironical,  consoling,  rebuking  by  turns.  Sometimes 

As  from  an   infinitely  distant  land, 
Come  airs  and  floating  echoes  that  convey 
A  melancholy  into  all  our  day. 

The  next  moment  you  could  not  help  smiling  at  some  keen  witticism.  Then 
he  was  ironical,  and  you  remembered  Heine,  and  saw  that  he  knew  how  much 
irony  is  mingled  by  God  in  the  order  of  His  creation.  Then  tears  sprang  to 
your  eyes  as  he  pictured  the  failure  of  success,  and  told  of  the  long, 
triumphant  struggle  and  the  victory  turned  into  mourning  by  the  death  of  the 
onl/  child.  But  what  description  can  render,  or  what  analysis  explain,  the 
visible  inspiration,  the  touch  of  fire  from  heaven?" 


JOSEPH  PARKER  37 

a  Voice,  a  Herald,  a  Fire.  When  he  himself  tried  to 
read  a  sermon,  as  he  did  once  or  twice  on  special  occa- 
sions, it  was  unbearably  dull.  He  seems  to  have  tried  all 
plans  of  preaching  except  the  memoriter,  and  that  he  vras 
unable  to  adopt,  sharing  with  Beecher  an  inability  to 
commit  anything  to  memory  and  recall  it  when  needed. 
What  Gladstone  was  in  Parliament,  what  Wilberforce 
was  on  the  platform,  that,  as  to  extemporaneousness, 
Parker  was  in  the  pulpit.  For  Dr.  Parker,  no  less  than 
for  his  audience,  a  sermon  was  an  adventure;  and  if  he 
ever  arranged  for  any  emotional  flights  before,  he  must 
often  have  been  amazed  at  the  excess  beyond  what  he  had 
prepared.  His  preparation,  however,  was  strenuous, 
laborious,  thorough,  and  devout,  as  to  the  gathering  of 
his  material,  but  he  never  knew  how  much  of  it  might 
be  used,  and  how  much  his  daimon  might  add  to  it.  One 
is  first  dazzled  and  then  amazed  at  his  epigrams,  and  if 
one  did  not  know  it  to  be  a  fact  it  would  be  hard  to  be- 
lieve that  they  were  impromptu.  Obviously  such  a  method 
has  its  advantages,  but  it  has  also  its  deep  pitfalls,  and 
if  the  triumphs  of  Dr.  Parker  were  superlative  his  failures 
were  equally  gorgeous — leaving  him  not  only  bewildered, 
but  solemnly  vowing  never  again  to  enter  a  pulpit! 

Genius,  of  course,  is  a  law  unto  itself;  as  to  method 
it  is  enough  to  say  that  Dr.  Parker,  by  a  process  of  deep 
musings,  became  steeped  in  the  truth  he  would  utter,  and 
the  whole  man  was  on  fire  with  the  realisation  of  it.  He 
was  not  a  widely  read  man,  much  less  a  scholar,  but  he 
knew  the  Bible  as  few  men  have  ever  known  it,  having 
lived  with  it  until  the  very  soul  of  the  Book  seemed  to 
pass  into  the  man,  giving  to  his  ministry  the  background 
of  the  Eternal.  Surely  his  feat  of  expounding  the  scrip- 
tures from  end  to  end,  which  he  left  us  in  "The  People's 
Bible,"  asked  for  an  industry  to  match  its  audacity;  but 
he  made  the  old  Book  new  to  thousands  of  men,  equally 


88 

in  its  Divine  depth  and  its  vivid  human  colour.  For  my 
part  I  think  he  was  at  his  best  when  dealing  with  the 
Memoirs  of  Nehemiah  and  the  Gospel  of  Matthew,  and 
he  seemed  always  to  excel  in  the  portrayal  of  tragic, 
stormy  men  like  David;  as  Newman  was  most  at  home 
with  the  cunning  Jacob.  As  he  entered  the  pulpit  from 
studies  such  as  these,  men  felt  that  he  was  a  man  suffused 
with  a  sense  of  the  Unseen ;  and  it  was  this  that  created 
the  ample  atmosphere  in  which  the  myriad  significances 
of  earth  fell  into  their  natural  insignificance.  How  often 
the  word  "ineffable"  was  upon  his  lips,  revealing  a  mind 
to  which  the  Bible  was  not  simply  the  literature  of  a  people 
which  were  of  old,  but  the  Book  of  the  Presence. 

For  many  it  was  not  in  the  sermons  of  Dr.  Parker,  but 
in  his  prayers — mighty  in  their  sense  of  the  Eternal,  yet 
withal  so  richly  human — that  he  seemed  most  transfigured. 
The  penetrating  awe  felt  by  the  devout  Roman  Catholic 
at  the  elevation  of  the  Host  was  not  more  profound  than 
the  awe  felt  by  the  sincere  worshipper  in  the  City  Temple, 
when  Dr.  Parker  called  his  people  to  prayer.  "Let  us 
pray,"  was  always  followed  by  the  drawing  aside  of  the 
veil  which  curtains  us  within  Time,  and  all  were  alike 
needy  souls  in  the  presence  of  the  Eternal — like  doves  at 
the  prophet's  window.  "O  Lord,  make  us  so  much  like 
Jesus  as  to  be  mistaken  for  Him,"  may  be  an  impossible 
prayer  in  its  literal  sense,  but  it  is  a  perfect  expression  of 
the  most  eager  yearning  of  Christian  aspiration.  How 
tender  and  poignant  was  the  petition  he  offered  after  the 
loss  of  her  whom  he  called  his  "other  self,"  and  whom 
he  loved  just  short  of  idolatry:  "O  Thou  Man  of  Five 
Wounds,  say  to  our  withering  humanity :  I  am  the  Resur- 
rection and  the  Life !"  None  could  say  with  more  pathos, 
"O  Lord,  help  us  to  gather  a  few  roses  while  passing 
through  the  wilderness."  His  prayers  revealed  how  deeply 
his  mind  was  steeped  in  the  imagery  and  idiom  of  the 


JOSEPH  PARKER  89 

Bible,  which  had  become  the  dialect  of  his  own  soul ;  and 
he  helped  many  an  inarticulate  man  to  utter  those  longings 
for  God  which  well  up  in  every  human  heart,  but  which 
so  few  can  ever  express.1 

Few  people  suspect,  much  less  realise,  how  much  a  man 
of  the  pulpit  preaches  to  himself,  and  what  a  struggle 
goes  on  in  the  lonely  places  of  his  own  soul  in  respect  of 
the  faith  that  makes  us  faithful.  With  some  it  is  a  moral 
struggle,  with  others  intellectual  difficulty,  and  not  a  few 
men  of  saintly  character  and  unchallenged  faith  have  re- 
mained intellectually  uncertain  to  the  end.  They  walked 
by  faith,  not  by  knowledge.  "Rabbi"  Duncan,  of  Edin- 
burgh, called  himself  to  the  last  an  intellectual  sceptic. 
Life  had  for  him  on  one  side  a  precipice,  down  to  the 
abysses,  but  on  the  other  side  his  feet  were  on  the  rock; 
and  that  rock  was  experience.  It  is  still  a  matter  of  debate 
as  to  whether  Newman  was  not  in  intellect  a  sceptic,  as 
in  heart  he  was  a  mystic.  So  it  was  with  Joseph  Parker, 
in  whose  life  even  a  casual  student  must  feel  the  stress 
and  strain  of  a  struggle  never  adjourned;  and  if  he  did 
not  become  a  saint,  he  had  it  in  him  to  be  a  great  sinner, 
as  well  as  a  thorough-going  sceptic.  Even  to  the  very  last, 
if  he  had  his  mountain  moments  when  he  could  see  afar, 
and  when  the  rivers  were  but  threadlets  in  the  valley,  he 
had  also  his  dismal  hours — "an  atheism  within  a  theism," 
as  he  called  it — when  he  was  not  only  a  doubter,  but  a 
rebel.  Such  struggles  made  him  a  helper  of  others  who 
were  not  strong  swimmers,  and  if  he  had  great  compas- 
sion it  was  because  he  knew  that  every  man  fights  a  hard 
fight — often  against  heavy  odds. 

The  very  massiveness  of  the  man  made  his  eccen- 
tricities, to  say  nothing  of  his  faults,  so  conspicuous  as 

1  Nearly  all  the  prayers  of  Dr.  Parker  were  published,  accompanying  his 
sermons.  He  also  prepared  "The  People's  Family  Prayer  Book,"  in  connection 
with  "The  People's  Bible,"  but  it  does  not  seem  to  have  been  widely  used.  I 
know  not  how  many  men  told  me  that  they  learned  to  pray  from  Dr.  Parker 
— often  reading  his  prayers  on  their  knees. 


40          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

to  be  easily  exaggerated  out  of  all  proportion.  Yet  it  is 
true  to  say  that  a  ministry  fertile  in  its  resource  and  fruit- 
ful in  its  influence  was  disfigured  by  grave  defects.  His 
lust  for  publicity,  the  manner  in  which  he  trounced  his 
audiences  about  money,  together  with  not  a  few  unfor- 
givable atrocities  against  every  ideal  of  good  taste  in 
pulpit  decorum,  not  only  limited  his  power  but  injured 
the  City  Temple.  Such  things  made  good  copy  for  the 
press — as  when  he  damned  the  Sultan,  and  the  evening 
papers  came  out  with  the  headline,  "The  Swearing  Par- 
son"— but  in  the  minds  of  many  thoughtful  people  they 
created  an  impression  of  the  City  Temple  as  a  place  where 
one  might  expect  any  kind  of  a  "stunt" ;  and  unhappily 
that  tradition  still  haunts  it.  The  irritation  aroused  by 
pigmy  critics  was  astonishing  in  one  so  strong  and  self- 
reliant,  and  often  a  fiery  postcard  was  penned  in  reply, 
only  to  be  quietly  burned  by  his  wife — who,  fortunately, 
did  not  destroy  that  letter  to  a  man  who  demurred  to 
some  remark  of  his  about  Aaron's  Calf,  and  whose  initials 
happened  to  be  "A.  C."  It  was  from  the  heart  that  he 
prayed:  "O  Lord,  save  us  from  the  insanity  of  defend- 
ing ourselves" ;  and  he  might  with  wisdom  have  adopted 
the  motto  which  Jay  of  Bath  learned  from  Wilber force : 
"Never  complain,  never  explain."  *  His  impatience  with 
differing  opinion  was  never  more  unhappily  shown  than 
at  the  close  of  a  conference  of  workingmen  whom  he  had 
invited  to  meet  him  and  give  their  reasons  for  not  going 
to  church.  After  hearing  their  reasons  he  concluded  the 
conference  by  telling  them  that  "the  more  he  heard  their 
opinions,  the  more  he  thought  of  his  own." 

No  sooner  had  I  taken  up  my  work  at  the  City  Temple 
than  I  began  to  hear,  or  to  receive  by  letter,  all  kinds 


JOSEPH  PARKER   ;  41 

of  memories  and  incidents  about  Dr.  Parker,  some  of 
which  I  venture  to  record  here.  They  show  many  sides 
of  the  man,  his  quick-darting  insight,  his  aptness  in  illus- 
tration, his  homiletic  ingenuity,  his  vanity  and  his  hu- 
mility, his  humour  and  his  pathos.  Hundreds  of  ministers 
attended  the  City  Temple,  especially  at  the  Thursday  noon 
service,  often  to  get  a  "tip"  for  a  sermon,  it  may  be,  and 
they  not  infrequently  found  it  in  an  aside  of  the  preacher 
as  he  read  the  scriptures.  Even  of  the  noblest  preachers 
we  must  say  that  "we  have  this  treasure  in  earthen  ves- 
sels," but  God  used  his  servant  Joseph  Parker  as  an  in- 
strument through  which,  as  from  the  sky,  men  heard 
rebuke  for  sin,  comfort  in  sorrow,  inspiration  in  bewilder- 
ment, and  the  truth  that  lights  our  human  way  at  eventide. 
Some  memories  are  as  follows : 

In  reading  Gal.  6:3,  "For  if  a  man  think  himself  to  be 
something  when  he  is  nothing,  he  deceiveth  himself,"  the 
preacher  added,  and  nobody  else! 

"Twenty  years  ago,"  writes  a  minister,  "I  attended  a 
morning  service  at  the  City  Temple.  I  have  forgotten 
everything  I  heard  at  the  service  except  one  sentence  in 
Dr.  Parker's  prayer.  In  thanking  God  for  His  love,  he 
paused,  and  in  a  voice  like  a  trumpet  he  exclaimed: 
'What  is  Hell  itself  but  a  dying  spark  in  the  amplitude  of 
Thy  radiant  Kingdom !' ' 

At  a  club  dinner  one  of  the  speakers  asserted  that  Chris- 
tianity had  done  very  little  for  mankind.  For  his  part 
he  believed  that  gas  had  been  a  greater  benefit.  Cries  of 
"Shame"  were  heard,  upon  which  Dr.  Parker,  a  guest  of 
the  evening,  rose,  and  said :  "Hush !  Do  not  quarrel  with 
our  friend.  He  is  stating  his  belief.  Now  I,  when  I 
am  nearing  my  latter  end,  will  call  for  the  consolations  of 
the  Christian  religion;  but  our  friend  here,  on  his  death- 
bed, will  send  for  the  gasman." 

"Twelve  years  ago  I  was  privileged  to  hear  Dr.  Parker 


42  PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

put  the  Gospel  in  a  nutshell,  in  his  own  unique  manner,  in 
the  following  scintillating  epigram:  'All  man's  religion, 
without  exception,  is  man  seeking  after  God.  Christianity 
is  God  seeking  man.'  It  solved  a  doubt  and  put  me  on 
the  track  of  truth." 

"Once  I  heard  Dr.  Parker  read,  as  one  of  the  Scripture 
lessons,  the  eighth  chapter  of  Romans,  from  the  35th 
verse:  'Who  shall  separate  us  from  the  love  of  Christ?' 
As  he  reached  the  thirty-eighth  verse,  his  voice  rose  in  tri- 
umphant tones,  thrilling  the  audience  as  he  said,  'Neither 
death,  nor  life,  nor  any  created  thing' :  then,  closing  the 
Bible  sharply,  he  looked  straight  at  the  audience  and  said, 
'Perhaps  something  less.'  The  effect  was  difficult  to  de- 
scribe." 

A  poor  woman  came  to  the  Thursday  noon  service 
bringing  her  little  child  with  her.  The  child  could  not 
be  kept  still  during  the  sermon,  but  would  keep  up  his 
pretty,  winsome  prattle,  and  at  last  the  mother,  fearing 
to  disturb  others  near  her,  got  up,  and  was  making  her 
way  along  the  aisle  when  Dr.  Parker  detected  her,  and 
said:  "I  will  not  have  you  leave  this  service  with  that 
little  child.  We  need  the  child  in  the  midst.  We  don't 
know  a  word  that  he  is  saying,  but  we  do  know  that  it  is 
1  all  true!"  Who  but  his  celestial  daimon  could  have 
1  thought  of  that,  and  it  was  a  sermon  in  itself. 

Dr.  Maclaren  and  Dr.  Parker  were  once  in  the  pulpit 
of  the  City  Temple  together,  and  it  was  a  majestic  sight. 
Dr.  Parker,  in  his  inimitable  way,  described  the  effect  upon 
himself  years  before,  when  he  heard  that  Dr.  Maclaren 
was  likely  to  come  to  London.  The  only  thing  for  him 
"was  to  resign  his  pulpit  and  leave  the  country."  Then 
he  said :  "The  guillotine  is  erected ;  the  victim  is  strapped 
upon  its  bed;  the  blade  gleams  and  falls;  the  head  is  in 
the  basket!  So  with  all  other  preachers  when  Maclaren 
gets  up."  Thus  the  giants  praise  each  other. 


JOSEPH  PARKER  43 

An  Anglican  clergyman  says  he  was  in  the  City  Temple 
one  Thursday  and  heard  the  following :  "There  are  three 
great  preachers  in  the  nineteenth  century,  Henry  Ward 
Beecher,  Charles  Haddon  Spurgeon,  and  I  need  not  name 
the  third."  It  seemed  incredible  to  me,  but  having  related 
it  to  several  of  my  friends,  they  tell  me  that  it  is  actually 
mild  compared  with  what  they  have  heard  with  their 
own  ears. 

"Since  my  boyhood,"  says  a  letter  from  Wales,  "I  have 
remembered  some  sentences  of  a  sermon  Dr.  Parker  de- 
livered in  the  City  Temple  in  the  mid-seventies.  The 
question  of  the  sermon  was :  'Does  God  Forsake  the 
Righteous?'  and  in  the  course  of  it  the  preacher  described 
the  house  of  a  poor  widow.  He  spoke  of  it  as  a  place 
'out  of  which  even  a  sheriff's  officer  could  not  take  more 
than  a  shadow,  and  would  not  take  that  because  he  could 
not  sell  it.'  The  preacher  himself  had  been  sorely  beset, 
for  he  remarked  'I  have  been  as  nearly  forsaken  as  any 
man  in  the  world.  I  have  looked  around  on  all  sides,  but 
could  see  no  way  out — no  lateral  way,  only  a  vertical  one!' 
What  a  phrase ! 

"Never  can  I  forget  the  manner  in  which  Dr.  Parker 
once  repeated  the  parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son.  Without 
giving  chapter  or  verse  he  simply  began,  'A  certain  man 
had  two  sons,'  and  when  he  had  finished  he  said :  'Ah,  I 
saw  you  as  you  left  home  this  morning.  There  was  a 
tap  at  the  window  in  the  nursery,  and  a  little  face  and  a 
waving  hand;  and  as  your  hand  was  on  the  gate  you 
looked  up  and  met  the  gaze  of  your  little  son.  Yes,  I 
saw  you,  and  God  saw  you,  and  there  was  joy  in  heaven 
because  the  love  in  your  heart  for  that  little  boy  was  a 
faint  reflection  of  the  Heavenly  Father's  love  for  you.' 
Many  heads  were  bowed,  as  when  a  wind  touches  a  field 
of  ripening  grain." 

From  the  funeral  of  his  mother  a  man  went  to  the  City 


44          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

Temple,  trying  to  pray  in  the  awful  stillness  which  death 
makes  when  it  passes  by.  Dr.  Parker  took  for  his  text 
the  words  of  Jesus  at  parting  from  his  friends:  "I  will 
see  you  again."  Write  the  text,  he  said,  on  the  pillow 
as  they  go  from  us — yes,  and  on  our  own  pillow  in  the 
long,  lonely  nights  that  follow — write  it  in  the  chamber 
where  the  separation  took  place :  "I  will  see  you  again." 
Never  mind  how,  when,  or  where.  At  least  one  man  went 
away  feeling  that  he  had  heard,  as  it  were,  a  voice  from 
behind  the  hills. 

Here  are  three  examples  of  the  unexpectedness  of  his 
homiletic  divination.  ( i )  At  a  time  when  creeds  seemed 
to  be  breaking  up  and  going  to  pieces,  he  took  his  text 
from  the  shipwreck  of  St.  Paul,  telling  how  they  es- 
caped; "And  some  on  broken  pieces  of  the  ship."  If 
you  cannot  have  a  whole  ship,  he  said,  one  plank  is  enough 
to  get  to  shore  on — faith  in  God,  trust  in  Christ.  (2) 
When  there  was  much  talk  about  education,  he  took  a 
familiar  text  but  gave  it  his  own  emphasis:  "Train  up 
a  child  in  the  way  he  should  go,"  and  discoursed  of  tem- 
perament in  education.  Each  child  is  different;  no  two 
can  be  trained  alike.  (3)  An  unforgettable  sermon  on 
"Personality"  had  for  its  text:  "And  it  was  noised  that 
he  was  in  the  house."  No  matter,  he  said,  who  else  was 
there ;  Jesus  filled  the  house. 

On  the  evening  of  July  2ist,  1891,  in  his  valedictory 
address  at  the  close  of  the  first  International  Congrega- 
tional Council,  in  the  City  Temple,  Dr.  Parker  said: 
"The  place  whereon  we  stand  is  holy  ground.  Within 
easy  sight  of  our  front  door  Richard  Baxter  entered  into 
the  Saint's  Everlasting  Rest.  Within  a  stone's  throw  of 
our  front  door  John  Bunyan  fell  asleep  in  Jesus.  Within 
twice  the  distance  Smithfield  reminds  us  that  above  this 
very  spot  the  smoke  of  the  torment  of  martyrs  hovered 
like  a  cloud  of  blessing.  Within  the  same  distance  the 


JOSEPH  PARKER  45 

old  Fleet  Prison  stood  where  doomed  martyrs  confronted 
one  another  in  tender  triumphant  prayer.  This  is  the 
place,  then,  beyond  all  other  places  for  us  to  enter  into 
holy  covenant:  'We're  the  sons  of  sires  that  baffled 
crowned  and  mitred  tyranny !' ' 

How  much,  if  any,  of  the  writings  of  Joseph  Parker 
will  endure  no  one  may  predict,  except  to  say  that  in  no 
published  sermon  will  one  look  in  vain  for  a  nugget  of 
gold.  Often  I  look  into  the  rich,  mellow  volumes  of 
"The  City  Temple  Pulpit,"  in  which  are  to  be  found  the 
ripest  sermons  of  his  life,  between  1898  and  1902,  just 
before  he  began  to  break  up  and  go  to  pieces;  and  their 
suggestiveness  seems  inexhaustible.  Time,  of  course,  will 
test  his  work,  and  if  it  reveals  some  wood,  hay  and  stubble, 
it  will  also  preserve  much  gold  and  precious  stone.  Often 
it  was  said  that  he  had  the  talent  of  an  actor,  and  that 
had  he  taken  to  the  stage  he  might  have  been  a  rival  of 
his  friend,  Sir  Henry  Irving.  But  that  is  manifestly  a 
judgment  without  discrimination,  since  acting  and  oratory 
are  two  different  things,  as  Joseph  Jefferson  has  taught 
us  in  an  essay  which  deserves  a  place  among  the  finest 
philosophic  distinctions.  Often,  too,  Dr.  Parker  was 
called  the  Beecher  of  England,  but  he  was  very  unlike 
the  pastor  of  Plymouth  Church,  lacking  that  rich,  warm, 
abounding  human  love  which  saved  his  humour  from 
satire  and  made  his  theology  poetry.  If  Parker  was  a 
trumpet,  Beecher  was  an  orchestra. 


Ill:  The  City  Temple 


Ill 

The  City  Temple 

May  1 4th,  1917: — At  sea  on  the  Orduna,  nearing  the 
war-zone.  The  first  Hospital  Unit  of  the  American  Army 
is  on  board,  but  so  far  we  have  had  no  naval  escort.  It 
is  rumoured  that  we  are  to  meet  Destroyers  at  a  certain 
place  of  rendezvous,  but  whether  they  are  to  be  American 
or  British  we  do  not  know.  Of  course,  we  naturally  hope 
they  will  be  American,  as  this  Hospital  Unit  is  an  advance 
company  of  the  Army.  Up  early  to  see  if  our  escort  has 
arrived,  for  the  captain  has  been  sailing  for  two  days  by 
dead  reckoning  under  grey  skies.  Every  pair  of  glasses 
on  board  scanned  the  sky-line.  At  last  a  tiny  speck  ap- 
peared on  the  grey,  fluffy  sea,  but  we  could  not  tell  what 
flag  it  flew.  Nearer  it  came,  pitching  like  a  Texas  pony 
among  the  white-caps — all  watching  intently  in  the  dawn. 
Finally  a  little  nurse  descried  the  Stars  and  Stripes ;  then 
others  saw  it,  and  instantly  all  began  to  sing,  "Oh,  say, 
can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light!"  Our  hearts  were 
full  to  breaking,  our  eyes  were  wet  with  tears;  it  was  a 
moment  when  patriotism  and  religion  were  one. 

May  1 7th: — Again  London!  If  I  had  been  set  down 
here  from  anywhere,  or  from  nowhere,  I  should  have 
known  that  it  is  "ye  olde  London  town,"  where  all  things 
turn  to  the  left,  as  they  do  in  the  "Inferno"  of  Dante. 
And  how  quiet!  Compared  with  the  din  of  New  York, 
or  the  hideous  nightmare  of  the  Chicago  loop,  London  is 
as  quiet  as  a  country  village.  There  are  no  sky-scrapers 

49 


50          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

to  be  seen,  but  the  picture  spread  out  like  a  panorama 
from  Primrose  Hill  is  not  to  be  forgotten.  Slowly  it 
works  its  ancient  spell, — equally  on  long  sun-drenched 
afternoons,  and  on  those  pensive  evenings  of  not  insistent 
rain, — everywhere  the  hauntings  of  history,  everywhere 
the  stir  and  throb  of  history  in  the  making.  From  a  low, 
dim  sky  a  gentle  rain  was  falling  when  I  arrived,  and  a 
soft  wind,  burdened  with  a  damp  fragrance,  came  as  a 
delicate  promise  of  the  purity  at  the  heart  of  things.  Along 
the  aloof  avenues  of  the  rich,  and  the  drab  streets  of  the 
poor,  that  little  wind  wandered,  like  a  breath  of  God 
bringing  a  sudden  tenderness  and  sad  beauty  to  an  imagi- 
native soul.  At  such  times  the  essential  spirit  of  London 
is  revealed, — its  mysterious  promise  of  half-hidden  things 
becoming  almost  palpable, — and  I  feel  strangely  at  home 
in  its  quiet  excitement,  its  vivid  stimulations,  and  its  thou- 
sand evocative  appeals.  London  has  seen  war  before;  k 
is  a  very  old  city,  weary  with  much  experience,  and  will- 
ing to  forgive  much  because  it  understands  much. 

Yes,  it  is  London;  but  the  question  is,  Which  London 
is  it?  For  there  are  many  Londons — the  London  of  the 
Tower  and  the  Abbey,  of  Soho  and  the  Strand,  of  Down- 
ing Street  and  Whitechapel,  of  Piccadilly  and  Leicester 
Square.  There  is  the  London  of  Whittington  and  his 
Cat,  of  Goody  Twoshoes  and  the  Canterbury  Shades,  of 
Shakespeare  and  Chatterton,  of  Nell  Gwynne  and  Dick 
Steele — aye,  the  London  of  all  that  is  bizarre  in  history 
and  strange  in  romance.  They  are  all  here,  in  this  gigan- 
tic medley  of  past  and  present,  of  misery  and  magnificence. 
Sometimes,  for  me,  it  is  hard  to  know  which  holds  closest, 
the  London  of  fiction  or  the  London  of  fact,  or  the  Lon- 
don of  literature,  which  is  a  blending  of  both.  Anyway, 
as  I  see  it,  Goldsmith  carouses  with  Tom  Jones,  and 
Harry  Fielding  discusses  philosophy  with  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield;  Nicholas  Nickleby  makes  bold  to  speak  t« 


THE  CITY  TEMPLE  51 

Mr.  W.  M.  Thackeray,  and  to  ask  his  favour  in  behalf  of 
a  poor  artist  of  the  name  of  Turner;  and  "Boz,"  as  he 
passes  through  Longacre,  is  tripped  up  by  the  Artful 
Dodger,  and  falls  into  the  arms  of  St.  Charles  Lamb  on 
his  way  to  call  on  Lady  Beatrix  Esmond.  No  doubt  my 
London  is  in  large  part  a  dream,  but  it  is  most  enchanting. 

May  20th: — Attended  the  King's  Weigh  House  Church 
to-day, — made  famous  by  Dr.  Binney, — and  heard  Dr. 
Orchard  preach.  He  is  an  extraordinary  preacher,  of  vital 
mind,  of  authentic  insight,  and  of  challenging  personality. 
From  an  advanced  liberal  position  he  has  swung  toward 
the  Free  Catholicism,  and  by  an  elaborate  use  of  symbols 
is  seeking  to  lead  men  by  the  sacramental  approach  to 
the  mystical  experience.  Only  a  tiny  wisp  of  a  man, 
seldom  have  I  heard  a  preacher  more  searching,  more 
aglow  with  the  divine  passion.  He  does  not  simply  kindle 
the  imagination :  he  gives  one  a  vivid  sense  of  reality.  He 
has  a  dangerous  gift  of  humour,  which  often  sharpens 
into  satire,  but  he  uses  it  as  a  whip  of  cords  to  drive  sham 
out  of  the  temple.  He  said  that  preaching  in  the  Anglican 
Church  "is  really  worse  than  necessary,"  and  he  was  sure 
that  in  reordination  it  is  not  enough  for  the  bishop  to 
lay  his  hands  on  the  preacher;  the  servant-girl  and  the 
tram-driver  ought  also  to  add  their  consecration.  With 
his  face  alight  he  cried,  "You  need  Christ,  and  I  can  give 
Him  to  you."  Surely  that  is  the  ultimate  grace  of  the 
pulpit.  It  recalled  the  oft-repeated  record  in  the  Journal 
of  Wesley,  in  respect  to  the  companies  to  whom  he 
preached:  "I  gave  them  Christ."  It  was  not  merely  an 
offer :  it  was  a  sacrament  of  communication. 

How  beautiful  is  the  spirit  of  reverence  which  pervades 
an  English  church  service,  in  contrast  with  the  too  free 
and  informal  air  of  our  American  worship.  The  sense 
of  awe,  of  quiet,  of  yearning  prayer,  so  wistfully  poignant 
in  these  days,  makes  an  atmosphere  most  favourable  to 


52          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

inspiration  and  insight.  It  makes  preaching  a  different 
thing.  In  intellectual  average  and  moral  passion  there 
is  little  difference  between  English  and  American  preach- 
ing, but  the  emphasis  is  different.  The  English  preacher 
seeks  to  educate  and  edify  his  people  in  the  fundamentals 
of  their  faith  and  duty;  the  American  preacher  is  more 
intent  upon  the  application  of  religion  to  the  affairs  of  the 
moment.  The  Englishman  goes  to  church,  as  to  a  house 
of  ancient  mystery,  to  forget  the  turmoil  of  the  world, 
to  be  refreshed  in  spirit,  to  regain  the  great  backgrounds 
of  life,  against  which  to  see  the  problems  of  the  morrow. 
It  has  been  said  that  the  distinctive  note  of  the  American 
pulpit  is  vitality ;  of  the  English  pulpit,  serenity.  Perhaps 
each  has  something  to  learn  from  the  other. 

May  sfth: — No  man  may  ever  hope  to  receive  a  warmer 
welcome  than  was  accorded  me  upon  my  return  to  the 
City  Temple,  and  it  was  needed.  Something  like  panic 
seized  me,  perhaps  because  I  did  not  realise  the  burden 
I  was  asked  to  bear  until  I  arrived  at  the  Temple.  Put- 
ting on  the  pulpit  gown  of  Joseph  Parker  was  enough 
to  make  a  young  man  nervous,  but  I  made  the  mistake  of 
looking  through  a  peep-hole  which  he  had  cut  in  the  vestry 
door,  the  better  to  see  the  size  of  his  audiences.  The 
Temple  was  full  clean  back  to  the  "Rocky  Mountains,"  as 
the  top  gallery  is  called — a  sea  of  faces  in  the  area,  and 
clouds  of  faces  above.  It  was  terrifying.  Pacing  the 
vestry  floor  in  my  distress,  I  thought  of  all  the  naughty 
things  the  English  people  are  wont  to  say  about  American 
speakers — how  we  talk  through  the  nose,  and  the  like. 
My  sermon,  and  almost  my  wits,  began  to  leave  me. 
There  was  a  vase  of  flowers  on  the  vestry  desk,  and  in 
the  midst  of  my  agony,  as  I  bent  over  it  to  enjoy  the 
fragrance,  I  saw  a  dainty  envelope  tucked  down  in  it. 
Lifting  it  out,  I  saw  that  it  was  addressed  to  me,  and, 
opening  it,  this  is  what  I  read : — 


THE  CITY  TEMPLE  53 

Welcome!  God  bless  you.  We  have  not  come  to  criti- 
cise, but  to  pray  for  you  and  pray  with  you. — THE  CITY 
TEMPLE  CHURCH. 

At  once  all  my  nervousness  was  forgotten;  and  if  that 
day  was  a  victory,  it  was  due,  not  to  myself,  but  to  those 
who  knew  that  I  was  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  and 
whose  good-will  made  me  feel  at  home  in  a  Temple  made 
mellow  by  the  richness  of  its  experience,  like  an  old  violin 
which  remembers  all  the  melodies  it  has  heard. 

May  28th: — Every  day,  almost  anywhere,  one  sees  a 
little  tragedy  of  the  war.  Here  is  an  example.  Scene  I : 
a  tube  train  standing  at  Black  friars  Station.  Enter  a 
tired-looking  man  with  a  'cello  in  its  cumbrous  case.  He 
sinks  heavily  into  a  seat  and  closes  his  eyes.  People  pass- 
ing stumble  against  his  instrument  and  are,  in  about  equal 
numbers,  apologetic,  annoyed,  and  indifferent.  Enter  a 
tall  New  Zealander.  He  sits  opposite  the  tired  'cellist, 
and  looks  lovingly  at  the  instrument.  Scene  II :  the  same, 
four  stations  west.  The  New  Zealander  rises  to  leave  the 
car.  The  musician  looks  up,  and  his  eyes  meet  those  of 
the  soldier.  The  latter  smiles  faintly,  trying  to  be  light- 
hearted,  and  pointing  to  the  'cello-case,  says :  "No  more 
of  that  for  me.  It  was  my  favourite  instrument."  He 
goes  out,  and  the  'cellist  sees  that  his  right  sleeve  is  empty. 
He  flushes  slightly  and,  after  a  moment,  blows  his  nose 
defiantly,  looking  round  furtively  to  see  if  anyone  has 
had  the  indecency  to  notice  his  emotion.  No  one  has. 

June  4th: — Went  down  to-day  to  see  White  Horse 
Hill,  near  Ufiington,  and  lay  for  hours  on  the  June  grass 
near  the  head  of  that  huge  horse  carved  in  the  chalk. 
What  a  superb  panorama  of  Southern,  Western,  and  Mid- 
land shires  lay  spread  out,  with  the  Hampshire  and  Wilt- 
shire downs  to  the  south,  clipped  out  on  the  skyline.  Just 
below  is  the  vale  of  White  Horse,  which  Michael  Dray- 
ton,  no  mean  judge  of  such  matters,  held  to  be  the  queen 


54  PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

of  English  vales.  The  great  creating  tide  of  summer  is 
nearing  its  zenith.  Everything  is  brimming  over  with 
sap,  scent,  and  song.  Yet  one  is  conscious  of  the  in- 
finitely old  all  around,  of  the  remote  and  legendary.  The 
Horse  himself,  for  instance — who  cut  him  out  of  the 
turf  ?  When  ?  To  what  heroic  or  religious  end  ?  There 
is  nothing  to  tell  us.  How  different  Nature  is  in  a  land 
where  man  has  mingled  his  being  with  hers  for  countless 
generations;  where  every  field  is  steeped  in  history  and 
every  crag  is  ivied  with  legend.  Such  places  give  me  a 
strange  sense  of  kinship  with  the  dead,  who  were  not  as 
we  are;  the  "long,  long  dead,  the  men  who  knew  not  life 
in  towns,  and  felt  no  strangeness  in  sun  and  wind  and 
rain."  Uffington  Castle,  with  its  huge  earth  walls  and 
ditches,  is  near  by.  Perhaps  the  men  of  the  Stone  Age 
fortified  it.  Perhaps  King  Alfred  fought  the  Danes  there. 
Nobody  knows,  and  a  day  in  June  is  no  time  to  investi- 
gate. But  what  is  that  faint,  rhythmic  throb  ?  The  guns 
in  France! 

June  Qth: — Spent  yesterday  afternoon  and  evening  at 

the  country  house  of  Lord  and  Lady  M ,  with  an 

oddly  assorted  group  of  journalists,  labour  leaders,  social- 
ists, radicals,  conservatives,  moderates,  and  what  not.  It 
was  a  rainbow  club,  having  all  colours  of  opinion,  and  yet, 
as  Carlyle  said  of  his  talk  with  Sterling,  "except  in  opinion 
not  disagreeing."  They  discussed  many  matters,  formally 
on  the  lawn,  or  informally  in  groups,  with  freedom,  frank- 
ness, and  thoroughness.  They  were  not  afraid  of  names 
or  labels.  They  cracked  the  nut  of  every  kind  of  idea 
and  got  the  kernel.  The  war,  of  course,  was  a  topic,  but 
more  often  the  background  of  other  topics,  in  the  light 
and  shadow  of  which  many  issues  were  discussed,  such 
as  Ireland,  Anglo-American  relations,  industrial  democ- 
racy, socialism,  religion,  and  the  like.  The  Government 
was  mercilessly  criticised — not  merely  abused,  but  dealt 


THE  CITY  TEMPLE  55 

with  intelligently,  with  constructive  suggestion,  and  all 
in  good  spirit.  Try  to  imagine  such  discussions  at  a 
dinner-table  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

It  was  a  revelation  to  me,  showing  that  there  is  more 
freedom  of  thought  in  England  than  in  America.  Lib- 
erty, in  fact,  means  a  different  thing  in  England  from 
what  it  does  with  us.  In  England  it  signifies  the  right 
to  think,  feel,  and  act  differently  from  other  people ;  with 
us  it  is  the  right  to  develop  according  to  a  standardised 
attitude  of  thought  or  conduct.  If  one  deviates  from 
that  standard,  he  is  scourged  into  line  by  the  lash  of  opin- 
ion. We  think  in  a  kind  of  lock-step  movement.  Nor  is 
this  conformity  imposed  from  without.  It  is  inherent  in 
our  social  growth  and  habit.  An  average  American 
knows  ten  times  as  many  people  as  the  average  English- 
man, and  talks  ten  times  as  much.  We  are  gregarious; 
we  gossip;  and  because  everyone  knows  the  affairs  of 
everyone  else,  we  are  afraid  of  one  another.  For  that 
reason,  even  in  time  of  peace,  public  opinion  moves  with 
a  regimented  ruthlessness  unknown  in  England  where 
the  majority  has  no  such  arrogant  tyranny  as  it  has 
with  us. 

June  nth: — More  than  once  recently  I  have  heard  Dr. 
Forsyth  lecture,  and  I  am  as  much  puzzled  by  his  speak- 
ing as  I  have  long  been  by  his  writing.  Each  time  I 
found  myself  interested  less  in  his  thesis  than  in  the 
curiously  involved  processes  of  his  mind.  It  is  now 
several  years  since  I  read  his  famous  article  on  "The  Lust 
for  Lucidity,"  a  vice,  if  it  is  a  vice,  of  which  his  worst 
enemy,  if  he  has  an  enemy,  would  never  think  of  accusing 
him.  It  is  indeed  strange.  I  have  read  everything  Dr. 
Forsyth  has  written  about  the  Cross,  and  yet  I  have  no 
idea  of  what  he  means  by  it.  As  was  said  of  Newman, 
his  single  sentences  are  lucid,  often  luminous, — many 
of  them,  indeed,  glittering  epigrams, — but  the  total  result 


56          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

is  a  fog,  like  a  Scottish  mist  hovering  over  Mount  Cal- 
vary. One  recalls  the  epigram  of  Erasmus  about  the 
divines  of  his  day,  that  "they  strike  the  fire  of  subtlety 
from  the  flint  of  obscurity."  Just  when  one  expects  Dr. 
Forsyth  to  extricate  his  thought,  he  loses  himself  in  the 
mystic  void  of  evangelical  emotion.  But  perhaps  it  is 
my  fault.  When  he  writes  on  other  subjects — on  litera- 
ture and  art,  especially — he  is  as  inspiring  as  he  is  win- 
some. 

June  1 4th: — To-day  was  a  soft,  hazy  day,  such  as  one 
loves  in  London ;  and  suddenly,  at  noon,  there  was  a  rain 
of  air-raid  bombs.  The  explosions  were  deafening. 
Houses  trembled,  windows  rattled  or  were  shattered — 
and  it  was  all  over.  Throngs  of  people  soon  filled  the 
streets,  grave,  silent,  excited,  but  with  no  signs  of  panic. 
Quickly  ambulances  were  moving  hither  and  yon.  Not 
far  from  the  City  Temple  I  saw  a  cordon  formed  by 
police  joining  hands  at  the  doorway  of  a  shattered  house, 
as  the  dead  and  mutilated — one  little  girl  with  her  leg 
blown  off — were  being  cared  for.  Calm  good-nature  pre- 
vailed. Officials  were  courteous  and  firm.  Everybody 
was  kind,  helpful,  practical.  Even  the  children,  darting 
to  and  fro,  seemed  not  to  be  flustered  at  all.  I  find  it 
difficult  to  describe,  much  less  to  analyse,  my  own  reac- 
tion. I  seemed  to  be  submerged  in  a  vast,  potent  tide  of 
emotion, — neither  fear,  nor  anger,  nor  excitement, — in 
which  my  will  floated  like  a  tiny  boat  on  a  sea.  There 
was  an  unmistakable  current  of  thought,  how  engendered 
and  how  acting  I  know  not ;  but  I  was  inside  it  and  swept 
along  by  it.  While  my  mind  was  alert,  my  individuality 
seemed  to  abdicate  in  favour  of  something  greater  than 
itself.  I  shall  never  forget  the  sense  of  unity  and  fusion 
of  purpose,  a  wave  of  common  humanity,  which  drew 
us  all  together  in  a  trustful  and  direct  comradeship. 
June  i8th: — Met  H.  G.  Wells  at  lunch  to-day,  his 


THE  CITY  TEMPLE  57 

invitation  being  a  response  to  my  sermon  on  his  book, 
"God,  the  Invisible  King."  He  entered  with  a  jigging 
sort  of  gait,  perspiring  profusely, — in  fact,  doing  every- 
thing profusely, — all  fussed  up  about  the  heat,  saying 
that  he  feared  it  would  exterminate  him.  In  personal  ap- 
pearance he  is  not  distinguished,  except  his  eyes,  where 
one  divines  the  strength  of  the  man.  Eager,  friendly, 
companionable,  his  talk,  thinly  uttered,  is  not  unlike  his 
writing — vivid,  stimulating,  at  times  all-questioning.  Just 
now  he  is  all  aglow  with  his  discovery  of  God,  "the  happy 
God  of  the  heart,"  to  use  his  words.  He  looked  surprised 
when  I  suggested  that  he  had  found  what  the  Bible  means 
by  the  Holy  Spirit,  as  if  he  had  thought  his  discovery  en- 
tirely new.  What  if  this  interesting  man, — whose  genius 
is  like  a  magic  mirror  reflecting  what  is  in  the  minds  of 
men  before  they  are  aware  of  it  themselves, — so  long  a 
member  of  the  Sect  of  Seekers,  should  join  the  Fellow- 
ship of  the  Finders.  Stranger  things  have  happened,  but 
his  rushing  into  print  with  his  discovery  fills  me  with  mis- 
giving. The  writing  man  is  an  odd  species,  but  I  recall 
the  saying  of  the  Samoan  chief  to  the  missionary:  "We 
know  that  at  night  Some  One  goes  by  among  the  trees, 
but  we  never  speak  of  it."  Anyway,  we  had  a  nutritious 
time. 

Two  ministers  have  just  told  me  how,  at  a  meeting  of 
ministers  some  time  ago,  which  they  attended,  a  resolution 
was  offered,  and  nearly  passed,  to  the  effect  that  not  one 
of  them  would  darken  the  doors  of  the  City  Temple  dur- 
ing my  ministry.  My  visitors  told  it  with  shame,  con- 
fessing that  they,  too,  had  been  prejudiced  against  me  as 
an  American.  It  recalled  how,  thirty  years  ago,  when  Dr. 
John  Hall  was  called  to  the  Fifth  Avenue  Presbyterian 
Church,  New  York,  he  received  a  letter  from  an  American 
friend  saying,  "You  will  find  a  prejudice  against  you  in 
the  minds  of  some  of  the  smaller  men  here.  It  is  natural 


58          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

that  they  should  feel  slighted  by  a  call  being  given  to  you, 
a  foreigner,  which  to  some  extent  will  be  strengthened 
by  the  prejudice  against  Irishmen  in  particular."  Evi- 
dently human  nature  is  much  the  same  on  both  sides  of 
the  sea;  but  that  was  long  ago,  and  our  two  countries 
were  not  then  allies  in  the  great  war.  I  do  not  recall  that 
in  recent  years  any  British  minister  working  in  America 
— of  whom  there  are  many,  but  not  half  enough — has  had 
to  face  such  a  feeling. 

July  1st: — To-day  is  the  anniversary  of  the  opening  of 
the  Battle  of  the  Somme,  and  The  Times  has  three  col- 
umns of  closely  printed  In  Memoriam  notices,  to  read 
which  is  like  listening  to  a  requiem — like  those  imploring 
voices  that  cry  and  wail  in  the  opening  bars  of  the  Dead 
March  in  "Saul."  Who  can  measure  the  depths  of  such 
grief !  In  the  City  Temple,  at  times,  I  can  feel  the  ache 
of  it,  especially  in  the  moment  of  prayer  when  men  and 
women,  deeply  wounded,  seek  the  final  consolation  of 
God.  The  end  of  every  day  finds  my  heart  sore,  drained 
dry  of  every  drop  of  sympathy  it  can  hold.  Yet,  as  the 
Dead  March  ends  in  an  outburst  of  exultation,  so  in  these 
memorial  notices  in  The  Times  the  trumpet  of  triumph 
sounds  above  the  sob  of  sorrow.  Again  and  again  a  new 
word  appears :  "In  proud  and  loving  memory"  ;  and  three 
times  this  text  is  quoted  in  a  spirit  of  heavenly  paradox : 
"He  asked  life  of  Thee,  and  Thou  gavest  it  him,  even 
length  of  days  forever  more."  No,  no;  on  this  day  a 
year  ago  the  lads  of  the  Somme  did  not  die;  they  rest  with 
King  Arthur  in  Avalon,  beyond  the  night  and  the  sea. 

July  4th: — Lectured  in  the  City  Temple  last  night  on 
Lincoln,  and  I  have  never  had  quite  such  a  response  any- 
where. It  is  through  Lincoln  that  I  wish  to  reveal  the 
soul  of  America — for  in  that  tall,  angular,  homely,  heroic 
figure  the  spirit  of  our  Republic  found  incarnation,  as 
in  no  other.  Washington  was  an  English  gentleman, 


THE  CITY  TEMPLE  59 

before  he  became  an  American;  but  Lincoln  grew  up  in 
the  back  yard  of  the  nation,  so  to  speak,  and  embodies 
what  is  most  characteristic  of  our  genius.  No  wonder 
something  of  mystery,  a  strange,  pervasive  appeal  to  the 
latent  greatness  in  us  all,  a  sanctity,  half  tragic  and  half 
triumphant,  lingers  about  the  memory  of  such  a  man. 
If  anyone  would  know  what  America  means,  let  him 
look  into  the  face  of  Lincoln — so  rugged,  so  human,  so 
strong,  written  all  over  with  the  hieroglyphics  of  sorrow, 
yet  with  lines  where  laughter  fell  asleep  when  it  was 
weary.  There,  in  those  deep-set  grey  eyes — the  prophet's 
grey — that  never  lie,  in  the  suggestion  of  a  smile  with 
tears  in  it,  in  features  marked  by  hard  struggle,  the  light 
of  high  resolve,  and  the  touch  of  a  great  pity,  all  may 
see  what  America  is,  what  made  it,  and  what  it  prophesies 
for  the  world.  It  is  a  face  neither  rudely  masculine  nor 
softly  feminine,  but  which  has  something  that  suggests 
the  mother  and  the  boy  behind  the  man ;  something  which 
tells  us  what  lies  in  the  souls  of  the  lowliest;  something 
of  the  cost  of  all  progress;  yea,  something  of  the  worth 
and  meaning  of  noble  human  living. 

July  1 8th: — Joined  the  Bishop  of  London  at  luncheon 
with  the  Lord  Mayor  at  the  Mansion  House,  and  he  was 
much  interested  in  the  ministry  of  my  colleague,  Miss 
Maude  Royden.  The  two  grave  questions  in  his  mind 
seemed  to  be,  first,  does  she  actually  stand  in  the  pulpit 
where  I  stand  when  I  preach?  second,  does  she  wear  a 
hat?  If  I  had  to  wear  the  gaiters  of  the  Bishop  of  Lon- 
don, I  should  be  concerned,  not  about  Miss  Royden's  hat, 
but  about  what  she  is  doing  with  the  brains  under  her 
hat.  Like  John  Wesley,  she  may  remain  all  her  days 
in  the  Anglican  fold,  but  she  will  be  there  only  in  her 
private  capacity,  and  her  influence  will  be  centrifugal. 
The  Bishop,  moreover,  though  his  foresight  is  not  ab- 
normal, ought  to  suspect  the  existence  of  the  forces 


60          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

gathering  about  the  greatest  woman  preacher  of  our 
generation  outside  his  jurisdiction.  Had  he  been  wise, 
instead  of  leaving  her  to  consort  with  feminists,  intel- 
lectuals, and  social  revolutionaries  outside  the  church,  he 
would  have  set  her  the  task  of  bringing  them  inside.  As 
it  is,  the  little  dark  woman  in  the  big  white  pulpit  is  a 
note  of  interrogation  to  the  future  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, and  the  sign  of  its  failure  to  meet  a  great  movement ; 
but  the  Bishop  can  see  nothing  but  her  hat! 

Frail  of  figure,  slight  unspeakably,  with  a  limp  in  her 
gait,  as  a  speaker  Miss  Royden  is  singularly  effective  in 
her  simplicity  and  directness.1  There  is  no  shrillness  in 
her  eloquence,  no  impression  of  strain.  In  style  conversa- 
tional rather  than  oratorical,  she  speaks  with  the  inevitable 
ease  of  long  practice.  Some  of  her  epigrams  are  unfor- 
gettable in  their  quick-sighted  summing  up  of  situations ; 
as  when  she  said  recently  in  the  Royal  Albert  Hall :  "The 
Church  of  England  is  the  Conservative  Party  at  prayer." 
She  is  an  authority  on  all  matters  pertaining  to  woman 
and  child,  holding  much  the  same  position  in  England 
that  Miss  Jane  Addams  has  long  held  in  America.  Un- 
trained in  theology, — which  some  hold  to  be  an  advantage, 
— she  deals  with  the  old  issues  of  faith  as  an  educated, 
spiritually  minded  woman  in  sensitive  contact  with  life, 
albeit  casting  aside  the  muffled  Christianity"  that  Wells 
once  described  as  the  religion  of  the  well-to-do  classes. 
Not  the  least  important  part  of  her  work  is  what  I  call 
her  "clinic" ;  her  service  as  a  guide,  confidant,  and  friend 
to  hundreds  of  women,  and  as  confessor  to  not  a  few. 
Here  she  does  what  no  man  may  ever  hope  to  do,  doubly 
so  at  a  time  when  England  is  a  world  of  women  who  are 
entering  upon  a  life  new,  strange,  and  difficult.  As  she 
remains  a  loyal  Anglican,  at  least  we  are  giving  an  example 

1  For  a  further  appreciation  of  Miss  Royden  and  her  ministry,  see  a  volume 
entitled,  "Some  Living  Masters  of  the  Pulpit." 


THE  CITY  TEMPLE  61 

of  that  Christian  unity  of  which  we  hear  so  much  and 
see  so  little. 

July  2Oth: — How  childish  people  can  be,  especially 
Britishers  and  Americans  when  they  begin  to  compare 
the  merits  and  demerits  of  their  respective  lands.  Each 
contrasts  what  is  best  in  his  country  with  what  is  worst 
in  the  other,  and  both  proceed  upon  the  idea  that  differ- 
ence is  inferiority.  It  would  be  amusing,  if  it  were  not 
so  stupid.  One  sees  so  much  of  it,  now  that  our  troops 
are  beginning  to  arrive  in  small  detachments,  and  it  is  so 
important  that  contacts  should  be  happy.  As  it  is,  Ameri- 
cans and  Englishmen  look  at  each  other  askance,  like  dis- 
tant cousins  who  have  a  dim  memory  that  they  once  played 
and  fought  together,  and  are  not  sure  that  they  are  going 
to  be  friends.  Both  are  thin-skinned,  but  their  skins  are 
thick  and  thin  in  different  spots,  and  it  takes  time  and  tact 
to  learn  the  spots.  Each  says  the  wrong  thing  at  the  right 
time.  Our  men  are  puzzled  at  the  reticence  of  the  Eng- 
lish, mistaking  it  for  snobbishness  or  indifference.  The 
English  are  irritated  at  the  roars  of  laughter  that  our 
boys  emit  when  they  see  the  diminutive  "goods"  trains 
and  locomotives,  and  speak  of  England  as  if  they  were 
afraid  to  turn  around  lest  they  fall  into  the  sea.  Among 
the  early  arrivals  were  a  few  more  talkative  than  wise, 
who  said  that,  England  having  failed,  it  was  "up  to  Amer- 
ica to  do  the  trick."  They  were  only  a  few,  but  they  did 
harm.  Alas,  all  of  us  will  be  wiser  before  the  war  is 
over.  If  only  we  can  keep  our  senses,  especially  our  sense 
of  humour.  But  there  is  the  rub,  since  neither  under- 
stands the  jokes  of  the  other,  regarding  them  as  insults. 
Americans  and  Scotchmen  understand  each  other  quickly 
and  completely,  no  doubt  because  their  humour  is  more 
alike.  We  shall  see  what  we  shall  see. 

This  friction  and  criticism  actually  extend  to  preaching. 
The  other  day  I  heard  an  American  preach  in  the  morn- 


62          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

ing,  a  Scotchman  in  the  afternoon,  and  an  Englishman  in 
the  evening.  It  was  most  interesting,  and  the  differences 
of  accent  and  emphasis  were  very  striking.  The  Ameri- 
can was  topical  and  oratorical,  the  Scotchman  expository 
and  analytical,  the  Englishman  polished  and  persuasive. 
After  the  evening  service  a  dear  old  Scotchman  confided 
to  me  that  no  Englishman  had  ever  preached  a  real  ser- 
mon in  his  life,  and  that  the  sermon  to  which  we  had 
just  listened  would  be  resented  by  a  village  congregation 
in  Scotland.  On  my  objecting  that  there  are  great 
preachers  in  England,  he  insisted  that  "an  Englishman 
either  reads  an  essay,  or  he  talks  nonsense;  and  neither 
of  these  is  preaching."  As  a  rule,  a  good  English  sermon 
is,  if  not  an  essay,  at  least  of  the  essay  type;  but  the 
Scotchman  exaggerated.  When  I  made  bold  to  ask  him 
what  he  thought  of  American  preaching,  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye  he  quoted  the  words  of  Herbert : 

"Do  not  grudge 

To  pick  treasures  out  of  an  earthen  pot. 
The  worst  speaks  something  good:  if  all  want  sense, 
God  takes  a  text,  and  preacheth  patience." 

Not  wishing  to  tempt  providence,  I  did  not  press  the 
matter ;  but  we  did  agree,  diplomatically,  that  neither  type 
of  preaching  is  what  it  ought  to  be.  The  people  are  not 
astonished  at  the  teaching,  as  of  old,  nor  do  the  rulers 
tremble  with  rage. 

July  24th: — Had  a  delightful  chat  over  a  chop  with  Sir 
Gilbert  Parker,  and  a  good  "row"  about  Henry  James. 
When  I  called  James's  renunciation  of  his  American  for 
British  citizenship  an  apostasy,  my  host  was  "wicked" 
enough  to  describe  it  as  an  apotheosis.  It  was  in  vain 
that  I  argued  that  James  was  not  a  true  cosmopolitan, 
else  he  would  have  been  at  home  anywhere,  even  in  his 
own  country.  The  talk  then  turned  to  the  bad  manners 


THE  CITY  TEMPLE  63 

of  the  two  countries,  ours  being  chiefly  diplomatic,  theirs 
literary.  Indeed,  if  one  takes  the  trouble  to  read  what 
Englishmen  have  written  about  America, — from  the  days 
long  gone  when  they  used  to  venture  across  the  Atlantic 
to  enlighten  us  with  lectures  in  words  of  one  syllable,  to 
the  days  of  Dickens,  and  how  Britishers  have  gone  sniffing 
their  way  through  America,  finding  everything  wrong 
because  un-English, — it  is  a  wonder  there  has  not  been 
war  every  five  years.  This  attitude  of  supercilious  and 
thinly  veiled  contempt  has  continued  until  it  has  hardened 
into  a  habit.  Nor  could  we  recall  any  books  written  in 
America  in  ridicule  of  England.  Meanwhile,  our  diplo- 
matic atrocities  have  been  outrageous.  Such  antics  and 
attitudes,  we  agreed,  would  make  friendship  impossible 
between  individuals,  and  they  demand  an  improvement  in 
manners,  as  well  as  in  morals,  on  both  sides.  In  the 
midst  of  the  question  whether  Watts-Dunton  saved  Swin- 
burne or  extinguished  him,  there  was  an  air-raid  warn- 
ing— and  so  we  reached  no  conclusion. 

July  2$th: — To-day  is  the  centenary  of  the  death  of 
Dr.  John  Fawcett,  of  Hebden  Bridge,  who  wrote  "Blest 
be  the  tie  that  binds" ;  and  even  amid  the  horror  of  war 
it  is  celebrated.  From  his  little  Baptist  chapel  at  Wains- 
gate  came  John  Foster,  the  essayist,  and  others  eminent 
in  educational  and  missionary  labours.  In  1772  he  went 
to  preach  for  Dr.  Gill  in  London,  and  not  long  after  was 
invited  to  be  his  successor.  There  was  deep  sorrow  at 
Wainsgate  when  he  accepted.  The  day  of  his  departure 
arrived.  All  his  goods  were  in  the  cart  to  leave  for  Lon- 
don, and  his  church  folk  stood  looking  on  in  silence.  He 
was  heavy  of  heart,  and  when  his  wife  went  to  take  a 
last  look  at  the  old  house,  she  said  she  did  not  see  how 
she  could  go.  "Neither  do  I,"  he  replied;  and  they  gut 
the  furniture  back  in  the  house,  his  friends  gladly  lending 
a  hand.  To  commemorate  the  event  Dr.  Fawcett  wrote 


64 

the  hymn  by  which  alone  he  lives,  though  he  did  much 
else  of  use  and  value  in  his  long  and  beautiful  ministry. 

July  26th: — Went  into  St.  Paul's  this  afternoon  in- 
tending to  go  again  into  the  crypt,  but  forgot  all  about  it. 
At  the  gate  a  dear  friend,  who  is  a  Canon,  was  selling 
tickets,  and  I  accused  him  of  being  a  money-changer  in  the 
Temple,  warning  him  as  to  what  the  Galilean  might  do. 
There  followed  a  discussion  of  the  attitude  of  Jesus 
toward  the  priests  of  the  temple  in  His  day,  suggested  by 
the  recent  essay  by  Montefiore.  The  great  Jewish  scholar 
— who  is  a  saint,  if  ever  there  was  one — holds  that  Jesus 
was  unjust  to  the  Pharisees,  as  well  as  untrue  to  His  own 
teaching  in  dealing  with  them.  He  seemed  willing  to 
forgive  everybody  except  his  priestly  critics,  whom,  he 
denounced  without  measure  and  without  discrimination, 
lifting  his  voice  almost  to  a  shriek.  My  friend  put  it 
in  this  way : 

"Supposing/'  he  said,  "a  poor  layman  of  obscure  birth 
and  of  no  technical  training,  who  had  won  a  certain  popu- 
larity among  the  working-classes,  but  was  looked  upon 
by  the  clergy  and  the  community  in  general  as  a  dema- 
gogue, were  to  appear  without  invitation  and  demand  to 
speak  in  this  glorious  building," — and  he  lifted  his  hand 
toward  the  vast  dome  with  the  light  of  love  in  his  eyes. 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  wishing  to  give  him  a  friendly  dig 
in  the  ribs,  "Jesus,  being  only  a  layman,  and  so  hopelessly 
irregular  ecclesiastically,  would  never  be  allowed  to  speak 
in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral."  He  ignored  my  nudge,  and 
went  on : 

"Supposing  that  the  logical  implication  of  his  teaching 
was  that  the  Service  held  here  was  quite  unnecessary,  and 
indeed  not  of  a  kind  that  our  Heavenly  Father,  being 
what  He  is,  would  desire.  Supposing  he  were  to  assert 
openly  and  with  much  vehemence  that  some  of  the  estab- 
lished customs  connected  with  the  Cathedral  were  im- 


THE  CITY  TEMPLE  65 

moral — would  it  be  possible  that  his  words  should  be 
calmly  and  quietly  weighed  by  us  who  love  and  venerate 
this  place,  and  are  proud  of  its  traditions,  and  have,  as  so 
many  of  us  have,  wonderful  and  moving  associations  with 
it  from  past  services  which  we  have  attended  here?" 

Knowing  that  he  was  profoundly  in  earnest,  I  made  no 
answer ;  and  I  was  glad  afterward  that  I  did  not,  because, 
as  he  finished  the  matter,  I  was  not  at  all  sure  that  I  was 
equal  to  such  a  test  myself.  He  continued : 

"That  is  a  question  which  I  confess  I  ask  myself  again 
and  again,  and  I  dare  not  say  that  I  am  sure  that  I  should 
have  the  sincerity — and  the  humility,  the  patience,  and 
the  courage  which  real  sincerity  involves — to  face  the 
questions  which  such  an  incident  would  raise;  or  to  ac- 
cept the  implications  of  such  teaching,  even  were  I  to 
feel  in  my  heart  that  it  was  true." 

July  27th: — Received  the  following  letter  from  a  City 
Temple  boy  in  the  trenches : — 

SOMEWHERE  IN  HELL,  July  16. 
DEAR  PREACHER, — 

The  luck  is  all  on  your  side ;  you  still  believe  in  things. 
Good  for  you.  It  is  topping,  if  one  can  do  it.  But  war 
is  such  a  devil's  nursery.  I  got  knocked  over,  but  I  am 
up  and  at  it  again.  I'm  tough.  They  started  toughening 
me  the  first  day.  My  bayonet  instructor  was  an  ex-pug, 
just  the  man  to  develop  one's  innate  chivalry.  They  hung 
out  the  bunting  and  gave  me  a  big  send-off,  when  we 
came  out  here  to  scatter  the  Hun's  guts.  Forgive  me 
writing  so.  I  know  you  will  forgive  me,  but  who  will 
forgive  God  ?  Not  I — not  I !  This  war  makes  me  hate 
God.  I  don't  know  whether  He  is  the  God  of  battles 
and  enjoys  the  show,  as  He  is  said  to  have  done  long 
ago.  .  .  .  If  so,  there  are  smoking  holocausts  enough  to 
please  Him  in  No  Man's  Land.  But,  anyway,  He  let  it 


66  PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

happen!  Omnipotent!  and — He  let  it  happen!  Omnis- 
cient !  Knew  it  in  advance,  and  let  it  happen !  I  hate  Him. 
You  are  kinder  to  me  than  God  has  been.  Good-bye. 

The  religious  reactions  of  men  under  the  pressure  and 
horror  of  war  are  often  terrifying.  The  general  rule — 
to  which,  of  course,  there  are  many  exceptions  both  ways 
— is  that  those  who  go  in  pious,  with  a  kind  of  tradi- 
tional piety,  come  out  hard  and  indifferent,  and  some- 
times militantly  sceptical;  while  those  who  were  careless 
emerge  deeply  serious — religious,  but  hardly  Christian, 
with  a  primitive  pantheism  mixed  with  fatalism.  Many, 
to  be  sure,  are  confirmed  in  a  mood  such  as  haunts  the 
stories  of  Conrad,  in  which  the  good  and  bad  alike  sink 
into  a  "vast  indifference"  or  the  mood  of  Hardy,  in  whom 
pessimism  is  mitigated  by  pity.  Others  fall  back  upon  the 
"hard,  unyielding  despair"  of  Russell,  and  their  heroism 
fills  me  with  awe.  Huxley,  I  know,  thought  the  great 
Force  that  rules  the  universe  a  force  to  be  fought,  and  he 
was  ready  to  fight  it.  It  may  be  magnificent,  but  it  is 
not  war.  The  odds  are  so  uneven,  the  fight  so  futile.  And 
still  others  have  learned,  at  last,  the  meaning  of  the  Cross. 

(In  the  interval  between  these  two  entries,  I  went  along 
the  war- front,  as  a  guest  of  the  British  Government ;  and 
after  spending  some  time  speaking  to  the  troops,  returned 
to  America.  I  discovered  an  amazing  America,  the  like 
of  which  no  one  had  ever  seen,  or  even  imagined,  before. 
Everywhere  one  heard  the  sound  of  marching,  marching, 
marching;  and  I,  who  had  just  seen  what  they  were  march- 
ing into,  watched  it  all  with  an  infinite  ache  in  my  heart. 
Hardly  less  terrifying  was  the  blend  of  alarm,  anger, 
hate,  knight-errantry,  hysteria,  idealism,  cynicism, 
moralistic  fervour  and  plain  bafflement,  which  made  up 
the  war-mood  of  America.  One  felt  the  altruism  and 


THE  CITY  TEMPLE  67 

inhumanity,  the  sincerity  and  sheer  brutishness  lurking 
under  all  our  law  and  order,  long  sleeked  over  by  pros- 
perity and  ease,  until  we  were  scarcely  aware  of  it.  From 
New  York  to  Iowa,  from  Texas  to  Boston  I  went  to  and 
fro,  telling  our  people  what  the  war  was  like ;  after  which 
I  returned  to  England.) 

October  2^th: — Joined  a  group  of  Free  Church  minis- 
ters at  a  private  breakfast  given  by  the  Prime  Minister 
at  No.  10  Downing  Street.  It  was  the  most  extraordinary 
function  I  have  ever  attended,  as  much  for  its  guests  as 
for  its  host.  Mr.  Lloyd  George  spoke  to  us  for  more 
than  an  hour,  and  we  saw  him  at  close  quarters  in  the 
intimacy  of  a  self -revelation  most  disarming.  What  a 
way  he  has  of  saying,  by  the  lifting  of  an  eyebrow,  by 
the  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  by  a  gesture  in  a  pause,  vol- 
umes more  than  his  words  tell.  He  feels  that  his  Free 
Church  brethren  are  estranged,  and  he  wished  to  explain 
matters  and  set  himself  right.  His  address  was  very 
adroit,  but  one  felt  a  suggestion  of  cunning  even  in  his 
candour,  despite  a  winning  smile.  He  talked  like  a  man 
in  a  cage,  telling  how  he  was  unable  to  do  many  things 
he  would  like  to  do.  As  he  spoke,  one  realised  the  enor- 
mous difficulties  of  a  man  in  his  place, — the  pull  and  tug 
of  diverse  interests, — his  incredible  burdens,  and  the  vast 
issues  with  which  he  must  deal.  No  wonder  time  has 
powdered  his  hair  almost  white,  and  cut  deep  lines  in 
his  face.  Behind  him  hung  a  full-length  painting  of  Pitt, 
and  I  thought  of  the  two  together,  each  leading  his  coun- 
try in  an  hour  of  supreme  crisis.  I  thought  him  worthy 
of  such  company, — though  hardly  in  the  Gladstone  tradi- 
tion,— a  man  of  ideas  rather  than  of  principles,  with 
more  of  the  mysterious  force  of  genius  than  either  Pitt 
or  Peel,  but  lacking  something  of  the  eternal  fascination 
of  Disraeli.  Such  men  are  usually  regarded  as  half- 


68          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

charlatan  and  half -prophet,  and  the  Prime  Minister  does 
not  escape  that  estimate. 

At  the  close  of  the  address  there  was  a  disposition  to 
heckle  the  Prime  Minister,  during  which  he  learned  that 
Nonconformity  had  been  estranged  to  some  extent — and 
he  also  learned  why.  One  of  the  urgent  questions  before 
the  country  is  an  actual  choice  between  Bread  and  Beer, 
and  the  Government  has  been  unable,  apparently,  to  de- 
cide. The  food-hogging  brewery  interests  seem  to  be 
sovereign,  and  the  Prime  Minister  is  tied — too  willingly, 
perhaps.  When  asked  why,  unlike  President  Wilson,  he 
avoids  the  use  of  the  word  God  in  his  addresses,  I  thought 
his  reply  neat.  It  is  done  deliberately,  he  said,  lest  he 
seem  to  come  into  competition  with  the  blasphemous 
mouthings  of  the  German  Emperor.  His  final  plea  was 
that,  as  Britain  must  bear  the  brunt  of  the  war  until 
America  is  ready, — as  Russia  bore  it  until  Britain  was 
ready, — she  must  muster  all  her  courage,  her  patience, 
and  her  moral  fortitude. 

As  I  left  the  house,  a  group  of  lynx-eyed,  sleuth-like 
press-men — good  fellows,  all — waylaid  and  assailed  me 
for  some  hint  of  the  meaning  of  such  a  gathering;  but 
I  was  dumb.  They  were  disappointed,  saying  that  "after 
a  minister  has  had  breakfast  with  the  Prime  Minister  he 
ought  to  be  a  well-primed  minister" ;  but  as  I  declined  to 
be  pumped,  they  let  me  go.  When  the  supply  of  truth  is 
not  equal  to  the  demand,  the  temptation  is  to  manufacture, 
and  speculations  in  the  afternoon  papers  as  to  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  breakfast  were  amazing.  It  was  called  "A 
Parson's  Peace,"  in  which  the  Prime  Minister  had  called 
a  prayer-meeting  to  patch  up  a  peace  with  the  enemy — 
which  is  about  as  near  as  some  journals  ever  arrive  at 
the  truth. 

November  6th: — Under  cover  of  a  dense  fog — a  dirty 
apron  which  Mother  Nature  flung  over  us  to  hide  us 


THE  CITY  TEMPLE  69 

from  the  air-raiders — I  went  down  last  night  into  Essex, 
to  preach  in  a  village  chapel  for  a  brother  who  is  dis- 
couraged in  his  work.  I  found  the  chapel  hidden  away 
on  a  back  street,  telling  of  a  time  when  these  little  altars 
of  faith  and  liberty  dared  not  show  themselves  on  the 
main  street  of  a  town.  It  was  named  Bethesda,  bringing 
to  mind  the  words  of  Disraeli,  in  "Sybil,"  where  he  speaks 
of  "little  plain  buildings  of  pale  brick,  with  names  painted 
on  them  of  Zion,  Bethel,  Bethesda;  names  of  a  distant 
land,  and  the  language  of  a  persecuted  and  ancient  race; 
yet  such  is  the  mysterious  power  of  their  divine  quality, 
breathing  consolation  in  the  nineteenth  century  to  the 
harassed  forms  and  harrowed  souls  of  a  Saxon  peasantry." 
Nor  is  that  all.  They  have  been  the  permanent  fountains 
of  a  religious  life  on  this  island;  and,  in  any  grand  re- 
union of  the  Church  hereafter  to  be  realised,  their  faith, 
their  patience,  their  heroic  tenacity  to  principle  must  be 
conserved,  else  something  precious  will  perish.  Tribute 
is  paid  to  the  folk  of  the  Mayflower  for  their  daring  of  ad- 
venture in  facing  an  unknown  continent  for  the  right  to 
worship;  but  no  less  heroic  were  the  men  who  remained 
in  the  homeland,  fighting,  suffering,  and  waiting  for  the 
freedom  of  faith  and  the  liberty  of  prayer. 

November  loth: — So,  at  last,  it  is  decided  that  we  are 
to  be  rationed  as  to  bread,  sugar,  and  fats  of  all  kinds, 
and  everybody  must  have  a  coupon.  It  is  a  democratic 
arrangement,  since  all  will  share  equally  as  long  as  the 
supply  lasts.  Unfortunately,  the  Truth  has  been  rationed 
for  a  long  time,  and  no  coupons  are  to  be  had.  It  is  a 
war  fought  in  the  dark  by  a  people  fed  on  lies.  One  re- 
calls the  line  in  the  "Iliad,"  which  might  have  been  written 
this  morning :  "We  mortals  hear  only  the  news,  and  know 
nothing  at  all."  No  one  wishes  to  publish  information 
which  would  be  of  aid  to  the  enemy;  but  that  obvious 
precaution  is  made  the  convenient  cover  of  every  kind  of 


70          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

stupidity  and  inefficiency.  Propaganda  is  the  most  terrible 
weapon  so  far  developed  by  the  war.  It  is  worse  than 
poison  gas.  If  the  wind  is  in  the  right  direction,  gas  may 
kill  a  few  and  injure  others;  but  the  possibilities  of  ma- 
nipulating the  public  mind,  by  withholding  or  discolour- 
ing the  facts,  are  appalling.  One  is  so  helpless  in  face  of 
it.  No  one  can  think  intelligently  without  knowing  the 
facts;  and  if  the  facts  are  controlled  by  interested  men, 
the  very  idea  of  democracy  is  destroyed  and  becomes  a 
farce.  This,  and  the  prostitution  of  parliamentary  gov- 
ernment in  every  democratic  land,  are  the  two  dangers  of 
a  political  kind  most  to  be  dreaded. 

November  ifth: — Dean  Inge,  of  St.  Paul's,  is  one  of 
the  greatest  minds  on  this  island,  and  an  effective  preacher 
if  one  forgets  the  manner  and  attends  to  the  matter  of 
his  discourse.  An  aristocrat  by  temper,  he  is  a  pessimist 
in  philosophy  and  a  Christian  mystic  in  faith — what  a 
combination!  If  not  actually  a  pessimist,  he  is  at  least  a 
Cassandra,  and  we  need  one  such  prophet,  if  no  more,  in 
every  generation.  No  wonder  he  won  the  title  of  "the 
gloomy  Dean."  Without  wasting  a  word,  in  a  style  as 
incisive  as  his  thought, — clear,  keen-cutting, — he  sets 
forth  the  truth  as  he  sees  it,  careless  as  to  whether  it  is 
received  or  not.  There  is  no  unction  in  his  preaching; 
no  pathos.  It  is  cold  intellect,  with  never  a  touch  of 
tenderness.  Nor  is  he  the  first  gloomy  Dean  of  St.  Paul's. 
There  was  Donne,  a  mighty  preacher  in  his  day,  though 
known  now  chiefly  as  a  poet,  whom  Walton  described  as 
"enticing  others  by  a  sacred  art  and  courtship  to  amend 
their  lives."  Yet  surely  the  theology  of  Donne  was  terri- 
fying rather  than  enticing.  There  is  very  little  of  the  poet 
in  Dean  Inge,  and  none  of  the  dismal  theology  of  Donne, 
who  was  haunted  equally  by  the  terrors  of  hell  and  by 
the  horrors  of  physical  decay  in  death. 

December  ist: — The  British  Army  is  before  Jerusalem ! 


THE  CITY  TEMPLE  71 

What  an  item  of  news,  half  dream-like  in  its  remoteness, 
half  romantic  in  its  reality.  What  echoes  it  awakens  in 
our  hearts,  evoking  we  know  not  how  many  memories  of 
the  old,  high,  holy  legend  of  the  world!  Often  captured, 
often  destroyed,  that  grey  old  city  still  stands,  like  the 
faith  of  which  it  is  the  emblem,  because  it  is  founded 
upon  a  rock.  If  Rome  is  the  Eternal  City,  Jerusalem  is 
the  City  of  the  Eternal.  Four  cities  may  be  said  to  stand 
out  in  the  story  of  man  as  centres  of  the  highest  life  of 
the  race,  and  about  them  are  gathered  the  vastest  accumu- 
lations of  history  and  of  legend:  Jerusalem,  Athens, 
Rome,  and  London !  But  no  city  can  have  the  same  place 
in  the  spiritual  geography  of  mankind  that  Jerusalem 
has.  For  four  thousand  years  it  has  been  an  altar  and  a 
confessional  of  the  race.  Religiously,  it  is  the  capital 
of  the  world,  if  only  because  Jesus  walked  in  it  and  wept 
over  it.  O  Jerusalem,  if  we  forget  thee,  Athens  fails, 
Rome  fails,  London  fails !  Without  the  faith  and  vision 
that  burned  in  the  city  on  Mount  Moriah,  our  race  will 
lose  its  way  in  the  dim  country  of  this  world.  Berlin 
does  not  mean  much.  Jerusalem  means  everything.  If 
only  we  could  agree  that,  hereafter,  when  we  have  dis- 
agreements, we  will  make  our  way  to  the  ancient  City  of 
God,  and  arbitrate  them ! 

December  i8th: — Pathetic  is  the  bewilderment  of  re- 
ligious leaders,  but  there  are  tokens  of  promise.  For  one 
thing,  we  are  rediscovering  the  uses  of  the  group — the 
law  of  two  or  three  and  Jesus — and  the  little  companies, 
gathered  here  and  there  to  think  things  through  on  their 
knees,  are  learning  much  about  the  power  of  fellowship 
in  corporate  prayer.  We  are  down  upon  the  foundations 
now,  having  witnessed  the  breakdown  of  private  faith 
no  less  than  the  public  impotence  of  religion.  If  there  is 
to  be  a  religious  awakening,  it  will  be  felt  first  by  those 
who  are  ready  for  it.  Some  of  us  have  lost  our  faith  in 


72  PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

many  of  the  devices  recommended  for  arming  the 
churches  with  the  power  of  God.  The  Spirit  bloweth 
where  it  listeth.  It  catches  men  unawares  when  they  are 
attending  to  something  else.  Almost  the  only  sign  of 
promise  on  the  religious  horizon  is  the  Brotherhood  Move- 
ment, an  outgrowth  of  the  old  Pleasant  Sunday  After- 
noon. Springing  up  spontaneously,  it  is  an  answer  to  a 
deeply  felt  need  for  a  closer  fellowship  in  the  service  of  a 
more  practical  Christianity.  Outside  the  church,  it  is  in 
nowise  opposed  to  the  church.  It  is  religious,  but  not 
ecclesiastical;  spiritual,  but  not  sectarian;  positive,  but 
not  dogmatic — its  sole  object  being  to  assert  the  prin- 
ciple, to  spread  the  spirit,  and  to  promote  the  practice  of 
brotherhood.  It  makes  no  dogma — theological  or  eco- 
nomic— a  test  of  fellowship,  but  invites  men  of  every  rank 
and  walk  of  life  to  join  hands  in  goodwill  for  the  com- 
mon good,  that  it  might  be  fulfilled  as  it  was  written  by 
the  poet : 

-  No  man  could  tell  me  what  my  soul  might  be ; 
I  sought  for  God,  and  He  eluded  me ; 
I  sought  my  brother  out,  and  found  all  three.1 

December  ipth: — H.  B.  Irving  spoke  for  me  at  the 
Thursday  noon  service  to-day  on  Religion  and  the  Drama, 
and  we  lunched  together  afterward.  The  big  pulpit  was 
a  fit  frame  for  his  tall  figure  and  classical,  clear-cut  fea- 
tures, and  his  noble  voice  filled  the  Temple.  He  recalled 
the  friendship  between  Dr.  Parker  and  Sir  Henry  Irving, 
and  the  saying  that  it  was  hard  to  know  which  was  the 

1  In  1916  the  first  welcome  given  me,  outside  the  City  Temple,  was  bv  the 
National  assembly  of  the  Brotherhood  Movement,  in  the  Bishopsgate  Institute, 
and  I  can  feel  the  warmth  and  glow  of  it  to  this  day.  Later,  as  a  member 
of  the  National  Council  of  the  Brotherhood,  I  came  to  know,  admire  and 
love  its  leaders:  William  Ward,  author  of  "Every  Church  a  Brotherhood,"  a 
dynamo  of  energy  and  enthusiasm;  Tom  Sykes,  a  Yorkshire  man  with  a  bucket 
full  of  brains  and  a  heart  as  big  as  all-out-of-doors;  Harry  Jeffs,  wise  journalist 
and  almost  perfect  Christian;  and,  greatest  of  all.  Dr.  Clifford,  the  Grand  Old 
Man  of  the  Free  Churches,  whose  faith  is  a  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  and  whose 
character  is  a  consecration.  Together,  or  in  teams,  we  went  to  and  fro 
over  England,  at  a  time  when  the  brotherhood  of  the  world  was  broken,  speak- 
ing in  behalf  of  fraternal  righteousness  and  seeking  to  organise  God's  light. 
I  shall  never  find  better  comrades  anywhere. 


THE  CITY  TEMPLE  73 

better  actor  of  the  two.  It  was  a  good  point  when  he 
said  that  in  view  of  the  amount  of  pose,  pretence,  and 
humbug  in  the  world,  he  often  thought  the  only  really 
honest  person  was  the  actor,  because  he  said  plainly,  "I 
am  not  what  I  pretend  to  be."  I  was  charmed  by  his 
personality,  and  especially  in  our  long  chat  after  the  ad- 
dress. He  is  interested  in  his  hobbies,  one  of  which  is  a 
study  of  criminology,  in  which  he  is  quite  an  authority 
and  is  soon  to  publish  another  book.  He  refuses  to 
admit  that  criminals  are  unlike  the  rest  of  us.  They  are 
neither  freaks  nor  fools,  but  just  folk  like  ourselves  gone 
awry.  He  has  also  written  the  standard  life  of  Judge 
Jeffreys,  of  infamous  memory.  As  he  spoke  of  his  father 
one  realised  what  a  profound  reverence  is.  He  said  that 
Sir  Henry  always  kept  a  picture  of  Christ  in  his  bed- 
room, where  he  could  see  it  the  moment  he  awoke.  "I 
remember,"  he  said,  "hearing  my  father  say  to  a  young 
man,  discriminating  between  the  moral  responsibilities  of 
youth  and  of  manhood,  'God  would  forgive  you;  He 
would  not  forgive  me.'  " 


IV:  War  and  Preaching 


IV 

War  and  Preaching 

January  1st,  1918: — Christmas  is  over,  thank  God! 
The  contrast  between  its  gentle  ideals  and  the  ghastly 
realities  round  about  us  almost  tears  one  in  two.  Here  we 
sing,  "Peace  on  earth  among  men  of  good-will"  ;  out  there, 
the  killing  of  boys  goes  on.  What  irony !  Still,  one  re- 
members that  it  was  a  hard  old  Roman  world  in  which  the 
Angels  of  the  first  Christmas  sang  their  anthem  of 
prophecy.  How  far  off  it  must  have  seemed  that  day; 
how  far  off  it  seems  to-day.  The  world  is  yet  in  twi- 
light, and  from  behind  dim  horizons  comes  ceaselessly 
the  thunder  of  great  guns.  A  frost-like  surface  of  garish 
gaiety  sparkles  in  our  cities,  as  anxiety  turns  to  laughter, 
or  to  apathy,  for  relief. 

After  all  these  ages,  must  we  say  that  the  song  of 
Christmas  is  as  vain  as  all  the  vain  things  proclaimed  of 
Solomon?  No;  it  will  come  true.  It  is  not  a  myth.  It 
is  not  a  mockery.  Surviving  ages  of  slaughter,  it  returns 
to  haunt  us,  proving  in  this  last  defeat  its  immortality. 
Because  that  music  is  far  off,  we  know  that  it  is  not  our 
own,  but  was  sent  into  the  world  by  One  who  is  as  far 
above  our  discordant  noises  as  the  stars  are  above  the 
mists.  Whatever  befall,  we  dare  not  lose  Faith,  dare  not 
surrender  to  Hate,  since  that  would  be  the  saddest  of  all 
defeats.  And  the  children  sang  carols  at  our  doors,  as 
in  the  days  of  Dickens,  as  if  to  rebuke  our  misgiving  and 
despair. 

77 


78          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

January  fth: — One  serious  handicap  besets  a  minister 
who  labours  abroad :  he  cannot  deal  with  public  questions 
with  the  same  freedom  that  he  can  at  home.  Indeed,  he 
can  hardly  touch  them  at  all — when  criticism  is  required 
—save  as  they  may  be  international  in  their  range.  Yes- 
terday, on  the  national  Day  of  Prayer,  I  made  protest  in 
the  City  Temple  against  allowing  the  increase  of  brewery 
supplies  to  stand,  on  the  ground  that  it  is  not  cricket  to 
destroy  foodstuffs  at  a  time  when  we  have  no  bread  fit 
to  eat  and  cannot  get  sugar  for  our  children.  To-day 
every  brewery  paper  in  the  kingdom  jumped  upon  me 
with  all  four  feet,  John  Bull  leading  the  pack.  It  does 
not  matter  if  every  journal  in  the  land  stands  on  its  hind- 
legs  and  howls,  as  most  of  them  are  doing.  What  hurts 
me  is  the  silence  of  the  churches!  The  majority  of  Free 
Churchmen  are  against  the  traffic,  but  hardly  so  in  the 
Established  Church.  Indeed,  that  Church  is  more  or 
less  involved  in  the  trade,  at  least  to  the  extent  of  allowing 
its  properties  to  be  used  by  public  houses.  Many  of  the 
higher  clergy  refused  to  forego  their  wine  during  the 
war,  even  at  the  request  of  the  King. 

The  situation  is  unlike  anything  we  know  in  America. 
Liquor  is  used  in  England  much  as  we  use  coffee;  it  is 
intrenched  in  custom,  disinfected  by  habit,  and  protected 
by  respectability.  Moreover,  the  traffic  is  less  open,  less 
easy  to  get  at  in  England,  and  those  who  profit  by  it  are 
often  of  the  most  aristocratic  and  influential  class  in  the 
community.  There  is,  besides,  a  school  of  English  polit- 
ical thought  which  holds  the  sublime  doctrine  that  the 
way  to  keep  the  workingman  quiet  and  contented  is  to  keep 
him  pickled  in  beer.  Any  suggestion  of  abolishing  the 
traffic  is,  therefore,  regarded  as  an  invitation  to  anarchy, 
and  dire  predictions  are  made.  Almost  anywhere  in  Lon- 
don one  sees  a  dozen  baby-carts  at  the  door  of  a  public 
house,  while  the  mothers  are  inside  guzzling  beer.  Never 


WAR  AND  PREACHING  79 

before  have  I  seen  drunken  mothers  trying  to  push  baby- 
carts  !  Surely  England  has  an  enemy  behind  the  lines ! 

January  I2th: — Had  a  delicious  tilt  with  Chesterton, 
who  apparently  regards  the  Dogma  of  Beer  as  an  article  of 
Christian  faith.  Every  time  I  meet  him  I  think  of  "The 
Man  Who  Was  Thursday" — a  story  in  which  he  has 
drawn  a  portrait  of  himself.  He  is  not  only  enormously 
fat,  but  tall  to  boot ;  a  mountain  of  a  man.  His  head,  seen 
from  behind,  looks  larger  than  any  human  head  has  a  right 
to  be.  He  is  the  soul  of  goodfellowship,  and  as  the  wine 
in  his  glass  goes  down,  one  may  witness  an  exhibition 
worth  going  miles  to  see.  He  leads  words  into  the  arena, 
first  in  single  file,  then  four  abreast,  then  in  regiments; 
and  the  feats  they  perform  are  hair-raising.  If  he  talks 
in  paradoxes,  it  is  for  the  same  reason  that  more  solemn 
persons  talk  in  platitudes — he  cannot  help  it. 

From  the  Gospel  of  Beer,  the  talk  turned  to  Wells  and 
his  new  theology;  and  it  was  good  to  hear  Chesterton 
laugh  about  a  God  unfinished  and  still  in  the  making.  His 
epigram  hit  it  off  to  a  dot.  "The  Christ  of  Wells  is  tidy ; 
the  real  Christ  is  titanic."  We  agreed  that  the  portraiture 
of  Jesus  by  Wells  is  in  bad  drawing,  being  too  much  like 
Wells  himself;  but  we  remembered  other  portraits  by  the 
same  hand, — Kipps,  Polly,  and  the  rest, — very  ordinary 
men  made  extraordinary  and  individual  and  alluring  by 
the  magic  of  genius. 

One  may  call  Chesterton  many  names, — an  irrationalist, 
a  reactionary  idealist,  a  humourist  teaching  serious  truth 
in  fun, — but  his  rich  humanity  and  robust  common  sense 
are  things  for  which  to  give  thanks.  He  is  a  prophet  of 
normal  human  nature,  and  his  uproarious  faith  in  God  is 
a  tonic  in  days  like  these.  If  Dickens  was  the  greatest 
American  ever  born  in  England,  some  of  us  feel  that 
Chesterton  is  the  best  thing  England  has  given  us  since 
Dickens.  One  loves  him  for  his  strength,  his  sanity,  and 


80          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

his  divine  joyousness.  The  Holy  Spirit,  said  Hermas,  is  a 
hilarious  spirit ! 

January  i?th: — Dr.  John  Hutton,  of  Glasgow, 
preached  in  the  City  Temple  to-day,  his  theme  being  "The 
Temptation,"  that  is,  the  one  temptation  that  includes  all 
others — the  spirit  of  cynicism  that  haunts  all  high  moods. 
Artfully,  subtly  it  seeks  to  lower,  somehow,  the  lights  of 
the  soul,  to  slay  ideals,  to  betray  and  deliver  us  to  base- 
mindedness.  Such  preaching !  He  searches  like  a  surgeon 
and  heals  like  a  physician.  Seldom,  if  ever,  have  I  had 
anyone  walk  right  into  my  heart  with  a  lighted  candle  in 
his  hand,  as  he  did,  and  look  into  the  dark  corners.  For 
years  I  had  known  him  as  a  master  of  the  inner  life, 
whether  dealing  with  the  Bible  "At  Close  Quarters,"  or 
with  those  friends  and  aiders  of  faith,  like  Browning ;  and 
there  are  passages  in  "The  Winds  of  God"  that  echo  like 
great  music.  As  a  guide  to  those  who  are  walking  in  the 
middle  years  of  life,  where  bafflements  of  faith  are  many 
and  moral  pitfalls  are  deep,  there  is  no  one  like  Hutton ;  no 
one  near  him.  But,  rich  as  his  books  are,  his  preaching  is 
more  wonderful  than  his  writing.  While  his  sermon  has 
the  finish  of  a  literary  essay,  it  is  delivered  with  the 
enthusiasm  of  an  evangelist.  The  whole  man  goes  into  it, 
uniting  humour,  pathos,  unction,  with  a  certain  wildness 
of  abandon,  as  of  one  possessed,  which  is  the  note  of  truly 
great  preaching.  In  my  humble  judgment  he  is  the  great- 
est preacher  in  Britain. 

January  23rd: — Just  returned  from  a  journey  into  the 
Midlands.  At  Manchester  I  preached  on  Sunday  in  the 
Cavendish  Street  Chapel,  where  Joseph  Parker  ministered 
before  going  to  the  City  Temple,  and  lectured  on  "Lincoln 
and  the  War"  the  following  evening.  No  man  ever  had  a 
more  cordial  reception  in  any  city.  As  a  preface  to  my 
lecture  I  paid  a  tribute  to  the  Manchester  Guardian  as  one 
of  the  great  institutions  of  this  island,  and  expressed  grati- 


WAR  AND  PREACHING  81 

tude  for  its  sympathetic  and  intelligent  understanding  of 
America  and  her  President,  in  the  difficult  days  of  our 
neutrality.  The  American  Consul,  in  seconding  a  vote  of 
thanks,  told  an  interesting  fact  found  in  the  files  of  his 
office.  A  group  of  Manchester  citizens,  knowing  the  ad- 
miration of  Lincoln  for  John  Bright, — a  Manchester 
man, — had  a  bust  of  the  Quaker  statesman  made,  and  it 
was  ready  to  be  sent  when  the  news  of  the  assassination 
came.  They  cabled  Mrs.  Lincoln,  asking  what  they  should 
do.  She  told  them  to  send  it  to  Washington;  and  it  is 
now  in  the  White  House. 

As  a  fact,  I  did  not  see  Birmingham  at  all,  because  a 
heavy  fog  hung  over  it  when  I  arrived  and  had  not  lifted 
when  I  left.  I  could  hardly  see  my  audience  when  I  rose 
to  speak,  and  felt  half -choked  all  through  the  lecture.  As 
it  was  my  first  visit  to  Birmingham,  I  began  by  recalling 
the  great  men  with  whom  the  city  was  associated  in  my 
mind.  The  first  was  Joseph  Chamberlain.  No  sooner  had 
I  uttered  the  name  than  there  were  hisses  and  cries,  "No, 
no!  John  Bright!"  I  had  forgotten  that  Bright  ever  sat 
for  a  Birmingham  district.  The  next  name  was  that  of 
John  Henry,  Cardinal  Newman.  It  was  received  at  first 
with  silence,  then  with  a  few  groans.  But  when  I  men- 
tioned the  name  of  Dr.  Dale,  there  was  loud  applause; 
for  he  was  not  only  a  mighty  preacher,  but  a  great 
political  influence  in  the  city.  Then  I  reminded  my  audi- 
ence that,  when  Chamberlain  was  accused  in  the  House  of 
Commons  of  representing  Dr.  Dale,  he  retorted,  in  praise 
of  the  great  preacher,  that  he  had  no  mean  constituency. 
The  last  man  named  was  J.  H.  Shorthouse,  the  author  of 
"John  Inglesant,"  one  of  my  favourite  books.  If  the 
name  was  recognised  at  all,  there  was  no  sign  of  it. 

January  2jth: — Have  been  on  another  short  tour, 
preaching  to  the  men  in  the  camps,  including  one  of  the 
khaki  colleges  of  the  Canadian  army  at  Whitley.  Twice, 


82          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

when  the  men  were  given  a  choice  between  a  sermon  and  a 
lecture,  they  voted  to  have  a  sermon.  And  what  they  want 
is  a  straight  talk,  hot  from  the  heart,  about  the  truths  that 
make  us  men;  no  "set  sermon  with  a  stunt  text,"  as  one  of 
them  explained.  When  I  asked  what  he  meant,  he  said : 
"Such  texts  as  'Put  on  the  whole  armour  of  God,'  or 
'Fight  the  good  fight,'  or  'Quit  you  like  men' ;  they  are 
doing  that  now."  But  they  are  being  undone  the  while 
by  a  terrible  shattering  of  faith,  and  in  many  a  moral 
trench-fight. 

No  end  of  nonsense  has  been  talked  about  the  men  in  the 
armies,  as  if  putting  on  khaki  made  a  man  a  saint.  No, 
they  are  men  like  ourselves, — our  boys, — with  the  pas- 
sions and  temptations  of  the  rest  of  us.  As  one  of  them 
put  it : — 

Our  Padre,  'e  says  I'm  a  sinner, 
And  John  Bull  says  I'm  a  saint; 
And  they're  both  of  'em  bound  to  be  liars, 
For  I'm  neither  of  them,  I  ain't. 
I'm  a  man,  and  a  man's  a  mixture, 
Right  down  from  his  very  birth ; 
For  part  of  'im  comes  from  'eaven. 
And  part  of  'im  comes  from  earth. 

And  upon  this  basis — being  a  man  myself,  and  therefore 
a  mixture — I  talked  to  them,  without  mincing  words, 
about  the  fight  for  faith  and  the  desperate  struggles  of  the 
moral  life.  Never  can  I  forget  those  eager,  earnest,  up- 
turned faces, — bronzed  by  war  and  weather — many  of 
which  were  soon  to  be  torn  by  shot  and  shell.  The  dif- 
ference in  preaching  to  men  who  have  seen  little  of  war, 
and  to  those  who  have  been  in  it  for  two  years  or  more,  is 
very  great.  I  should  know  the  difference  if  blindfolded. 
The  latter  are  as  hard  as  nails.  Only  now  and  then  does 
the  preacher  know  the  thrill  of  having  dug  under,  or 
broken  through,  the  wall  of  adamant  in  which  they  shelter 
that  shy  and  lonely  thing  they  dare  not  lose. 


WAR  AND  PREACHING  83 

February  i8th: — The  American  camp  at  Winchester. 
Preached  four  times  yesterday  in  a  large  moving-picture 
theatre, — packed  to  the  doors, — and  to-day  I  am  as  limp'as 
a  rag.  It  was  a  great  experience,  talking  to  such  vast 
companies  of  my  own  countrymen  —  tall,  upstanding, 
wholesome  fellows  from  all  over  the  Union,  among  them 
the  survivors  of  the  Tuscania,  torpedoed  off  the  coast  of 
Ireland.  They  are  in  the  best  of  spirits,  having  lost 
everything  except  their  courage,  as  one  of  them  said; 
everyone  with  a  cold,  and  all  togged  out  in  every  kind  of 
garb — for  those  who  did  not  lose  their  clothing  had  it 
ruined  by  the  sea-water. 

Spent  to-day  in  Winchester,  a  city  of  magnificent  mem- 
ories, about  which  clusters  more  of  history  and  of  legend 
than  about  any  city  on  this  island,  except  London.  It  is 
the  city  of  Arthur  and  the  Round  Table.  Here  the 
Saxon  Chronicles  were  written;  here  King  Alfred  lies 
buried.  It  is  the  very  birthplace  of  our  civilisation.  The 
College  and  the  St.  Cross  Hospital  have  about  them  the 
air  of  the  Middle  Ages.  But  the  Cathedral  is  the  gem  of 
the  scene,  having  the  most  beautiful  nave  I  have  ever  seen. 
Less  a  cemetery  than  the  Abbey,  even  an  amateur  architect 
can  trace  the  old  Norman  style,  shading  into  the  early 
English,  and  then  into  the  later  English  styles,  showing 
the  evolution  of  the  building  while  enshrining  the  history 
of  a  race.  In  the  south  transept  I  came  upon  the  tomb  of 
Izaak  Walton,  and  I  confess  I  stood  beside  it  with  mingled 
feelings  of  reverence  and  gratitude.  Behind  the  tomb  is 
a  noble  window,  not  more  than  fifty  years  old,  into  which 
the  fishing  scenes  of  the  New  Testament  are  woven  with 
good  effect — an  appropriate  memorial  to  the  gentlest  and 
wisest  fisherman  who  has  lived  among  us  since  Jesus 
lodged  with  the  fishermen  by  the  sea. 

The  afternoon  service  in  the  ancient  temple  touched  me 
deeply,  as  if  those  who  conducted  it  were  awed  by  the 


84  PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

presence  of  Eternity,  and  were  carrying  for  a  brief  time 
the  Torch  of  Faith,  changing  but  eternal ;  a  faith  natural 
to  humanity,  and  affirmed  and  expressed  by  the  ordered 
beauty  around  them.  Such  a  building  is  a  symbol  of  that 
in  man  which  refuses  to  be  subdued,  either  by  the  brute 
forces  of  life  or  by  the  anarchy  in  his  own  heart;  an 
emblem  of  that  eternal  resolve  to  love  rather  than  hate,  to 
hope  rather  than  despair. 

March  6th: — Returning  from  Edinburgh,  I  broke  my 
journey  at  the  ancient  city  of  York,  where  the  kindest  of 
welcomes  awaited  me.  Looking  out  of  my  hotel  window, 
I  saw  a  music-shop  founded  in  1768 — older  than  the 
American  Republic.  Preached  at  three  o'clock  at  the 
Monkgate  Methodist  Chapel;  at  five  held  an  institute  for 
ministers;  and  at  seven  lectured  on  Lincoln  to  a  huge 
audience,  Mr.  Roundtree,  Member  of  Parliament,  pre- 
siding. The  Lord  Mayor  presented  me  with  a  resolution 
of  welcome,  in  which  the  most  cordial  good-will  was  ex- 
pressed for  the  people  of  America. 

Earlier  in  the  day  I  was  taken  to  various  places  of  his- 
toric interest,  including,  of  course,  the  beautiful  old  grey 
Minster.  Also  to  the  grave  of  John  Woolman,  the 
Quaker,  a  brief  biography  of  whom  I  had  once  written.  I 
knew  he  died  while  on  a  mission  to  England,  but  I  had 
forgotten  that  he  was  buried  in  York.  Reverently  we 
stood  by  the  grave  of  that  simple  man, — daringly  radical, 
but  divinely  gentle, — who  was  the  incarnation  of  the 
spirit  of  Christ,  and  whose  life  of  love  and  service,  of  pity 
and  prayer,  made  him  a  kind  of  sad  St.  Francis  of  the 
new  world.  York  is  a  stronghold  of  the  Society  of 
Friends — the  noblest  body  of  organised  mysticism  on 
earth.  Aye,  the  war  is  making  men  either  sceptics  or 
mystics,  and  wisdom  lies,  methinks,  with  the  mystics 
•whose  faith  is  symbolised  in  the  beautiful  Listening  Angel 
I  saw  the  other  day  in  the  Southwell  Cathedral. 


WAR  AND  PREACHING  85 

March  I2th: — The  Prime  Minister  spoke  to  the  Free 
Church  Council  in  the  City  Temple  to-day,  and  it  was  an 
astonishing  performance,  as  much  for  its  wizardry  of  elo- 
quence as  for  its  moral  camouflage.  For  weeks  he  has 
been  under  a  barrage  of  criticism,  as  he  always  is  when 
things  do  not  go  right;  and  the  audience  was  manifestly 
unsympathetic,  if  not  hostile.  As  no  one  knew  what 
would  happen,  it  was  arranged  that  he  should  enter  the 
pulpit  during  the  singing  of  a  hymn. 

As  soon  as  he  rose  to  speak, — his  stout  body  balanced  on 
tiny,  dwarflike  legs, — the  hecklers  began  a  machine-gun 
fire  of  questions,  and  it  looked  as  if  we  were  in  for  a  war 
of  wits.  The  English  heckler  is  a  joy.  He  does  not  deal 
in  slang  phrases,  but  aims  his  dart  straight  at  the  target. 
In  ten  minutes  the  Prime  Minister  had  his  audience  stand- 
ing and  throwing  up  their  hats.  It  was  pure  magic.  I 
felt  the  force  of  it.  But  after  it  was  over  and  I  had  time 
to  think  it  through,  I  found  that  he  had  said  almost  noth- 
ing. On  the  question  of  Bread  or  Beer  he  turned  a  clever 
rhetorical  trick,  and  nothing  else.  The  Evening  Star  says 
that  the  Prime  Minister  is  not  a  statesman  at  all,  but  a 
stuntsman;  and  one  is  half  inclined  to  agree  with  it.  Cer- 
tainly his  genius  just  now  seems  to  consist  in  his  agility  in 
finding  a  way  out  of  one  tight  corner  into  another,  follow- 
ing a  zigzag  course.  An  enigmatic  and  elusive  person- 
ality,— ruled  by  intuitions  rather  than  by  principles, — if  he 
never  leaves  me  with  a  sense  of  sincerity,  he  at  least  gives 
me  a  conservative  thrill.  Despite  his  critics  the  record  of 
his  actual  achievements  is  colossal,  and  I  know  of  no  other 
personality  in  this  kingdom  that  could  take  his  place. 
Like  Roosevelt,  he  knows  how  to  dramatise  what  he  does, 
making  himself  the  hero  of  the  story;  and  it  is  so  skilfully 
done  that  few  see  that  the  hero  is  also  the  showman. 

March  i^th: — There  are  many  buildings  in  London 
much  older  than  the  City  Temple — some  quite  as  old  as 


86 

the  church  assembling  there — but  few  have  been  more  in 
contact  with  the  great  of  all  lands  and  all  walks  of  life. 
One  may  doubt  if  in  any  pulpit  anywhere  more  voices  of 
different  accent  have  been  heard,  pleading  more  great 
human  causes,  or  making  the  Gospel  eloquent  in  so  many 
keys  and  tones  of  emphasis,  or  with  more  variations  of 
insight.  Parker,  Beecher,  MacLaren,  Spurgeon,  Dean 
Stanley,  Clifford,  Campbell,  Gunsaulus — to  name  only  a 
few  of  many — Anglican  and  Free  Church  leaders,  Hindu 
seers  and  Hebrew  Rabbis,  liberals  and  evangelicals,  cath- 
olics and  agnostics,  all  have  been  welcomed  by  the  catho- 
licity and  hospitality  of  the  City  Temple.  It  was  a 
notable  day  when  Gladstone  delivered  his  remarkable  ad- 
dress on  the  Christian  Ministry;  hardly  less  so  when 
Balfour  spoke  in  his  inimitable  manner  —  easy,  witty, 
benevolently  wise — of  the  place  of  Nonconformity  in  Eng- 
lish life  and  history.  Lloyd  George,  when  a  political 
heretic,  and  after  he  became  Prime  Minister,  has  made 
more  than  one  great  pronouncement  from  that  high  pulpit, 
as  on  that  thrilling  day  when,  speaking  of  the  German 
proposal  of  peace,  his  blue  eyes  flashed  as  he  said :  "It  is  a 
dagger  wrapped  in  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount!"  Men  of 
letters  like  Wells,  Shaw,  Chesterton,  men  of  science  like 
Sir  Oliver  Lodge,  editors,  artists,  actors,  soldiers,  leaders 
of  Labour,  philanthropists  and  philosophers,  as  well  as 
great  women  from  Frances  Willard  to  Maude  Royden, 
have  been  heard  in  the  Temple.  Truly,  if  it  is  a  great 
throne  for  the  Speaking  Man  to-day,  such  memories  make 
it  a  whispering  gallery  of  the  past. 

March  2$th: — At  the  Thursday-noon  service  on  the 
2 1st,  we  had  news  that  a  great  battle  had  begun,  but  we 
little  dreamed  what  turn  it  would  take.  Instead  of  the 
long-expected  Allied  advance,  it  was  a  gigantic  enemy 
drive,  which  seems  to  be  sweeping  everything  before  it. 
JVave  after  wave  of  the  enemy  hosts  beat  upon  the  Allied 


WAR  AND  PREACHING  8T 

lines,  until  they  first  bent  and  then  broke ;  the  British  and 
French  armies  may  be  sundered  and  the  Channel  ports 
captured.  All  internal  dissension  is  hushed  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  common  danger,  and  one  sees  once  more  the 
real  quality  of  the  British  character,  its  quiet  courage 
shining  most  brightly  when  the  sky  is  lowering. 

London  is  tongue-tied;  people  look  at  each  other  and 
understand.  If  there  is  any  panic,  it  is  among  the  poli- 
ticians, not  among  the  people.  Resolute,  all-suffering,  un- 
conquerably cheery,  men  brace  themselves  to  face  the 
worst — it  is  magnificent!  There  was  no  room  for  the 
people  in  the  City  Temple  yesterday;  the  call  to  prayer 
comes  not  half  so  imperatively  from  the  pulpit  as  from 
the  human  heart  in  its  intolerable  anxiety  and  sorrow. 
These  are  days  when  men  gather  up  their  final  reasons  for 
holding  on  in  the  battle  of  life,  seeking  the  ultimate  solace 
of  the  Eternal. 

What  days  to  read  the  Bible !  Itself  a  book  of  battles, 
its  simple  words  find  new  interpretation  in  the  awful 
exegesis  of  events.  Many  a  Psalm  for  the  day  might 
have  been  written  for  the  day;  the  leaping  up  of  fires 
through  the  crust  of  the  earth  makes  them  luminous.  As 
we  enter  the  depths,  those  strange  songs  follow  us.  Doubt, 
elation,  anger,  and  even  hate  are  there  perfectly  expressed. 
To-day,  as  of  old,  the  people  imagine  a  vain  thing;  the 
earth  trembles;  the  honour  of  God  is  threatened.  The 
Apocalypse,  too,  has  a  new  force,  colour,  and  beauty,  as 
we  regard  it  in  the  light  of  burning  cities.  Its  pictures  are 
like  the  work  of  some  mighty  artist  on  a  vast,  cloudy 
canvas,  dipping  his  brush  in  earthquake  and  eclipse  and 
the  shadows  of  the  bottomless  pit.  Once  more  we  see 
the  Four  Horses  riding  over  the  earth.  The  challenge  of 
the  Book  of  Job  is  taken  up  again ;  Jeremiah  is  justified  in 
his  sorrow;  and  the  Suffering  Servant  of  God  is  a  living 
figure  in  this  new  crucifixion  of  humanity. 


88          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

And  the  Gospels !  Never  has  there  been  so  complete  a 
vindication  of  the  ethics  of  Jesus.  If,  the  Facts  now  say, 
you  take  the  anti-Christ  point  of  view,  this  is  what  it 
means.  Repent,  or  the  Kingdom  of  Hell  will  swallow  you 
up !  Thus  the  Galilean  triumphs,  in  the  terror  of  denying 
his  words,  no  less  than  in  the  blessing  of  obeying  them : 
"Thou  hast  the  words  of  eternal  life." 

March  sist: — Easter  Day!  Dr.  Rendel  Harris  tells 
how  in  the  musty  pages  of  the  Journal  of  a  learned  so- 
ciety, he  came  upon  a  revealing  fact.  It  was  there  re- 
corded that,  on  a  morning  in  May,  1797,  which  broke 
calmly  after  a  stormy  night,  it  was  possible  to  see  from 
the  cliffs  of  Folkestone  even  the  colour  of  the  cottages 
on  the  French  mainland.  In  the  spiritual  world,  also, 
there  is  the  record  of  such  a  day  of  clear  tranquillity, 
when  the  fierce  night  of  the  Passion  had  passed,  and  the 
day  of  the  Resurrection  dawned  white  and  serene.  On 
that  Day,  and  until  the  Ascension, — when  the  Great  Ad- 
venturer was  welcomed  home, — the  Unseen  World  was 
known  to  be  near,  home-like  and  real. 

To-day  is  the  anniversary  of  that  Day  of  Divine  Lucid- 
ity, when  men — plain,  ordinary  men  like  ourselves — saw 
through  the  shadows  into  the  life  of  things.  Softly, 
benignly,  the  Day  of  Eternal  Life  dawns  upon  a  world  red 
with  war  and  billowed  with  the  graves  of  those  who  seem 
doubly  dead,  because  they  died  so  young.  Never  did  this 
blessed  day  shine  with  deeper  meaning;  never  was  its 
great  Arch  of  Promise  so  thronged  with  hurrying  feet. 
Blessed  Day !  When  its  bells  have  fallen  into  silence,  and 
its  lilies  have  faded  into  dust,  pray  God  there  may  live  in 
our  hearts  the  promise  that,  after  the  winter  of  war,  there 
shall  be  a  springtime  of  peace  and  good-will ! 

When  one  thinks  of  the  number  of  the  fallen,  and  the 
heartache  that  follows  the  evening  sun  around  the  world, 
it  is  not  strange  that  many  seek  communication,  as  well 


WAR  AND  PREACHING  89 

as  communion,  with  the  dead — longing  to  see  even  in  a 
filmy  vapour  the  outlines  of  forms  familiar  and  dear. 
The  pathos  of  it  is  heart-breaking!  Even  when  one  is 
sure  that  such  use  of  what  are  called  psychical  faculties  is 
a  retrogression, — since  genius  is  the  only  medium  through 
which,  so  far,  Heaven  has  made  any  spiritual  revelation  to 
mankind, — it  is  none  the  less  hard  to  rebuke  it. 

Some  think  Spiritualism  may  become  a  new  religion, 
with  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  as  its  prophet  and  Sir  Conan  Doyle 
as  its  evangelist.  No  matter ;  it  has  done  good,  and  in  a 
way  too  easily  overlooked.  Nearly  all  of  us  grew  up  with 
a  definite  picture  in  our  minds  of  a  city  with  streets  of 
gold  and  gates  of  pearl ;  but  that  picture  has  faded.  Time 
and  criticism  have  emptied  it  of  actuality.  Since  then, 
the  walls  of  the  universe  have  been  pushed  back  into 
infinity,  and  the  old  scenery  of  faith  has  grown  dim. 
Admit  that  its  imagery  was  crude ;  it  did  help  the  imagina- 
tion, upon  which  both  faith  and  hope  lean  more  heavily 
than  we  are  aware.  Now  that  the  old  picture  has  van- 
ished, the  unseen  world  is  for  many  only  a  bare,  blank 
infinity,  soundless  and  colourless.  These  new  seekers 
after  truth  have  at  least  helped  to  humanise  it  once  more, 
touching  it  with  light  and  colour  and  laughter ;  and  that  is 
a  real  service,  both  to  faith  and  to  the  affections.  Mean- 
while, not  a  few  are  making  discoveries  in  another  and 
better  way,  as  witness  this  letter : — 

DEAR  MINISTER, — 

Early  in  the  war  I  lost  my  husband,  and  I  was  mad 
with  grief.  I  had  the  children  to  bring  up  and  no  one  to 
help  me,  so  I  just  raged  against  God  for  taking  my  hus- 
band from  my  side  and  yet  calling  Himself  good.  Some- 
one told  me  that  God  could  be  to  me  all  that  my  husband 
was  and  more.  And  so  I  got  into  the  way  of  defying  God 
in  my  heart.  "Now  and  here,"  I  used  to  say,  "this  is  what 


90          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

I  want  and  God  can't  give  it  to  me."  After  a  while  I 
came,  somehow,  to  feel  that  God  liked  the  honesty  of  it; 
liked  this  downright  telling  Him  all  my  needs,  though  I 
had  no  belief  that  He  could  help  me.  One  day  I  had  gone 
into  the  garden  to  gather  some  flowers,  and  suddenly  I 
knew  that  my  husband  was  there  with  me — just  himself, 
only  braver  and  stronger  than  he  had  ever  been.  I  do  not 
know  how  I  knew ;  but  I  knew.  There  was  no  need  of  a 
medium,  for  I  had  found  God  myself,  and,  finding  Him,  I 
had  found  my  husband  too. 

April  6th: — To-day  the  Lord  Mayor  of  London  cele- 
brated the  first  anniversary  of  the  entrance  of  America 
into  the  War  with  a  Luncheon  at  the  Mansion  House. 
It  was  a  notable  gathering.  Ambassador  Walter  H.  Page 
never  spoke  with  more  felicity  or  fire;  but  he  looks 
unwell.  A  gracious  Southern  gentleman  of  the  old 
school,  he  is  a  truly  great  Ambassador,  alike  for  his  tact, 
his  sagacity,  and  his  genius  of  friendship.  At  the  con- 
clusion of  his  address  he  presented  to  the  Lord  Mayor  a 
beautiful  American  flag,  which  the  Lord  Mayor  said 
would  hereafter  hang  beside  the  Union  Jack  in  the 
Egyptian  Room  in  the  Mansion  House — called  the 
Egyptian  Room,  as  I  learned  to-day  for  the  first  time, 
not  because  of  its  architecture  or  decorations,  but  because 
it  was  built  with  money  that  came  of  fines  imposed  upon 
Nonconformists  in  the  old  days,  which  was  to  them  like 
the  Egyptian  bondage.  Mr.  Balfour,  in  his  reply  to  the 
Ambassador,  was  at  his  best,  and  one  enjoyed  even  his 
stammer,  his  habit  of  going  back  and  picking  up  phrases, 
as  if  he  did  not  know  what  to  say  next.  No  one  who 
attended  that  historic  function  will  ever  forget  its  spirit 
of  comradeship,  its  intense  but  quiet  thoughtfulness,  and 
its  eloquent  interpretation  by  speakers  from  both  sides 
of  the  sea.  All  agreed  that  no  event  in  this  vast  tragedy 


WAR  AND  PREACHING  91 

is  of  profounder  significance  than  the  reapproachment  of 
the  old  and  new  worlds,  and  especially  the  new  fellowship 
of  English-speaking  peoples.  If  they  hold  together,  as 
they  go  the  world  will  have  to  go! 

April  I4th: — Once  more  it  has  been  shown  that  a 
woman  can  do  some  things  in  the  pulpit  which  no  man 
can  do  with  the  same  effectiveness.  When  the  question 
came  up  as  to  the  Maisons  Tolerees — that  is,  houses 
within  the  bounds  of  the  British  army  in  which  women 
were  herded,  under  medical  supervision,  for  the  uses  of 
the  soldiery — I  had  a  conference  with  Miss  Royden, 
telling  her  that  the  question  was  hers.  No  man  could 
deal  with  it  properly.  The  Master  of  the  Temple  told 
me  that  he  had  tried  and  failed.  My  colleague  agreed, 
and  the  manner  in  which  she  dealt  with  it  was  magnificent. 
Delicately,  yet  plainly,  disguising  none  of  the  beastliness 
of  it,  she  stated  the  case,  and  I  have  never  seen  such 
flaming  wrath  of  outraged  womanhood  at  the  degradation 
of  her  sex!  To  those  who  defended  the  system — and  I 
heard  it  defended  in  a  group  of  Christian  ministers — 
after  describing  the  tolerated  house  at  Gayeux-sur-Mer, 
she  said:  "Girls  who  are  visited  on  the  average  by  be- 
tween twenty  and  twenty-five  men  every  day,  do  not  long 
retain  any  of  the  youth  or  attraction  which  will  bring 
men  to  them.  Soon  their  places  have  to  be  taken  by  other 
girls,  and  the  State  becomes  the  procurer!  To  any 
woman  who  believes  the  sacrifice  to  be  necessary,  I  would 
say  that  she  herself  ought  to  volunteer.  The  men  who 
urge  regulated  prostitution  on  grounds  of  national 
necessity  ought  to  invite  their  wives  and  daughters  to 
fill  the  places  left  vacant  by  the  women  who  are  worn 
out!  I  use  words  that  sear  my  heart,  but  as  a  woman 
in  a  Christian  pulpit  I  cannot  be  silent  in  the  presence  of 
such  an  infamy."  Soon  the  Government  began  to  wince 
under  her  attacks,  and  the  abomination  was  abolished. 


92  PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

Unfortunately  the  Archbishop  did  not  get  angry  about 
it  until  the  victory  had  been  won.  Then  he  denounced 
the  horror  in  the  House  of  Lords! 

April  1 5th: — No  spring  drive  is  equal  to  the  drive  of 
spring  itself,  when  April  comes  marching  down  the  world. 
Kew  Garden  is  like  a  bit  of  paradise,  and  neither  war  nor 
woe  can  mar  its  glory.  How  the  English  love  flowers! 
Even  in  the  slums  of  London — which  are  among  the  most 
dismal  and  Godr forsaken  spots  on  earth — one  sees  in  the 
windows  tiny  pots  of  flowers,  adding  a  touch  of  colour  to 
the  drab  and  dingy  scene.  At  the  front,  in  dugouts,  one 
finds  old  tin  cans  full  of  flowers,  gathered  from  no  one 
knows  where.  Each  English  home  is  walled  in  for  pri- 
vacy,— unlike  our  American  way, — and  each  has  its  own 
garden  of  flowers,  like  a  little  Eden.  One  of  the  first 
things  an  Englishman  shows  his  guest  is  the  garden, 
where  the  family  spend  much  of  their  time  in  summer. 
April  sends  everybody  digging  in  the  garden. 

And  such  bird-song!  The  day  begins  with  a  concert, 
and  there  is  an  anthem  or  a  solo  at  any  hour.  They 
sing  as  if  the  heart  of  the  world  were  a  mystic,  un- 
fathomable joy ;  and  even  a  pessimist  like  Thomas  Hardy 
wondered  what  secret  the  'Darkling  Thrush'  knew  that 
he  did  not  know ;  and,  further,  what  right  he  had  to  sing 
in  such  a  world  as  this.  After  listening  to  the  birds,  one 
cannot  despair  of  man,  seeing  Nature  at  the  task  of  end- 
lessly renewing  her  life.  His  war,  his  statecraft,  his 
science,  may  be  follies  or  sins;  but  his  life  is  only  bud- 
ding even  yet,  and  the  flower  is  yet  to  be.  So  one  feels 
in  April,  with  a  lilac  beneath  the  window. 

April  20th: — Housekeeping  in  England,  for  an  Ameri- 
can woman,  is  a  trying  enough  experience  at  any  time; 
but  it  is  doubly  so  in  war-time  when  food  and  fuel  con- 
ditions are  so  bad.  Until  the  rationing  went  into  effect, 
it  was  a  problem  to  get  anything  to  eat,  as  the  shops 


93 

would  not  take  new  customers.  Even  now  the  bread 
tastes  as  if  it  had  been  made  out  of  sawdust;  and  butter 
being  almost  an  unknown  quality,  the  margarine,  like 
the  sins  of  the  King,  in  "Hamlet,"  smells  to  heaven. 
Shopping  is  an  adventure.  Literally  one  has  to  deal,  not 
only  with  "the  butcher,  the  baker,  and  the  candlestick- 
maker,"  but  with  the  fish-market,  the  green-grocer,  the 
dry  grocer, — everything  at  a  different  place, — so  it  takes 
time  and  heroic  patience,  and  even  then  one  often  comes 
home  empty-handed.  As  a  last  resort,  we  fall  back  on 
eggs  and  peanuts, — monkey-nuts,  the  English  call  them, — 
to  both  of  which  I  take  off  my  hat.  It  is  impossible  for 
one  person  to  keep  an  English  house  clean — it  is  so  ill-ar- 
ranged, and  cluttered  up  with  bric-a-brac.  There  are  none 
of  the  American  appliances  for  saving  labour — no 
brooms ;  and  the  housemaid  must  get  down  on  her  knees, 
with  a  dustpan  and  handbrush,  to  sweep  the  room.  There 
is  enough  brass  in  the  house  to  keep  one  able-bodied  per- 
son busy  polishing  it.  Arnold  Bennett  has  more  than  one 
passage  of  concentrated  indignation  about  the  time  and 
energy  spent  in  polishing  brass  in  English  houses.  It  is 
almost  a  profession.  One  compensation  is  the  soft-voiced, 
well-trained  English  servants,  and  often  even  they  are 
either  thievish  or  sluttish. 

April  2$th: — Twice  I  have  heard  Bernard  Shaw  lecture 
recently,  and  have  not  yet  recovered  from  the  shock  and 
surprise  of  meeting  him.  My  idea  of  Shaw  was  a  man 
alert,  aggressive,  self-centred,  vastly  conceited,  craving 
publicity,  laying  claim  to  an  omniscience  that  would  aston- 
ish most  deities.  That  is  to  say,  a  literary  acrobat, 
standing  on  his  head  to  attract  attention,  or  walking  the 
tight-rope  in  the  top  of  the  tent.  But  that  Shaw  is  a 
myth,  a  legend,  a  pose.  The  real  Shaw  is  no  such  man. 
Instead,  he  is  physically  finicky,  almost  old-maidish,  not 
only  shy  and  embarrassed  off  the  platform,  but  awkward, 


94  PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

blushing  like  a  schoolgirl  when  you  meet  him.  He  is 
gentle,  modest,  generous,  full  of  quick  wisdom,  but  sug- 
gesting lavender,  and  China  tea  served  in  dainty  old-world 
cups.  The  most  garrulous  man  in  Europe  before  the 
war,  he  was  smitten  dumb  by  the  insanity  of  it,  having  no 
word  of  comfort  or  command.  Unlike  Romain  Rolland, 
he  could  not  even  frame  a  bitter  condemnation  of  it.  So, 
after  one  or  two  feeble  protests,  he  went  back  into  his 
drawing-room,  pulled  the  blinds  down,  and  drank  China 
tea  out  of  his  dainty  cups,  leaving  the  world  to  stew  in  its 
own  juice.  Who  can  describe  the  fineness,  the  fatuous- 
ness, the  futility  of  him !  Whether  prophet  or  harlequin, 
he  has  shot  his  bolt  and  missed  the  mark.  Of  course,  the 
artist  will  live  on  in  his  work — most  vividly,  perhaps,  in 
his  sham-shattering  wit. 

April  joth: — Few  Americans  realise  what  the  Throne 
and  the  Royal  Family  mean  in  the  life  of  the  British  peo- 
ple. Our  idea  of  the  King  is  coloured  by  our  republican 
preconceptions,  to  say  nothing  of  our  prejudices — not 
knowing  that  England  is  in  many  ways  more  democratic 
than  America.  The  other  day,  in  the  City  Temple,  an 
American  minister  spoke  of  the  King  as  "an  animated 
flag,"  little  dreaming  of  the  thing  of  which  he  is  a  symbol 
and  the  profound  affection  in  which  he  is  held.  There  is 
something  spiritual  in  this  devotion  to  the  King,  some- 
thing mystical,  and  the  Empire  would  hardly  hold  together 
without  it.  The  Royal  Family  is  really  an  exaltation  of 
the  Home,  which  is  ever  the  centre  of  British  patriotism. 
Never,  in  their  true  hours,  do  the  English  people  brag  of 
Britain  as  a  world-power,  actual  or  potential.  It  is  always 
the  home  and  the  hearth, — now  to  be  defended, — and 
nowhere  is  the  home  more  sacred  and  tender.  Of  every 
Briton  we  may  say,  as  Bunyan  said  of  Greatheart :  "But 
that  which  put  glory  of  grace  into  all  that  he  did  was  that 
he  did  it  for  pure  love  of  his  Country."  This  sentiment 


WAR  AND  PREACHING  95 

finds  incarnation  in  the  Royal  Family,  in  whom  the  Home 
rises  above  party  and  is  untouched  by  the  gusts  of  passion. 

"Their  gracious  Majesties"  is  a  phrase  which  exactly 
describes  the  reigning  King  and  Queen,  though  neither 
can  be  said  to  possess,  in  the  same  measure,  that  mysteri- 
ous quality  so  difficult  to  define  which,  in  King  Edward 
and  Queen  Alexandra,  appealed  so  strongly  to  the  popular 
imagination.  Gentle-hearted,  if  not  actually  shy,  one  feels 
that  the  formalism  and  ceremony  of  the  Court  appeal  less 
to  the  King  than  to  the  Queen,  whose  stateliness  some- 
times leaves  an  impression  of  aloofness.  Something  of 
the  same  shyness  one  detects  in  the  modest,  manly,  happy- 
hearted  Prince  of  Wales,  whose  personality  is  so  capti- 
vating alike  in  its  simplicity  and  its  sincerity.  At  a  time 
when  thrones  are  falling,  the  British  King  moves  freely 
among  his  people,  everywhere  honoured  and  beloved — 
and  all  who  know  the  worth  of  this  Empire  to  civilisation 
rejoice  and  give  thanks. 

May  ipth: — Dr.  Jowett  began  his  ministry  at  Westmin- 
ster Chapel  to-day, — the  anniversary  of  Pentecost, — wel- 
comed by  a  hideous  air-raid.  Somehow,  while  Dr.  Jowett 
always  kindles  my  imagination,  he  never  gives  me  that 
sense  of  reality  which  is  the  greatest  thing  in  preaching. 
One  enjoys  his  musical  voice,  his  exquisite  elocution,  his 
mastery  of  the  art  of  illustration,  and  his  fastidious  style; 
but  the  substance  of  his  sermons  is  incredibly  thin.  Of 
course,  this  is  due,  in  large  part,  to  the  theory  of  popular 
preaching  on  which  he  works.  His  method  is  to  take  a 
single  idea — large  or  small — and  turn  it  over  and  over,  like 
a  gem,  revealing  all  its  facets,  on  the  ground  that  one  idea 
is  all  that  the  average  audience  is  equal  to.  Of  this  method 
Dr.  Jowett  is  a  consummate  master,  and  it  is  a  joy  to  see 
him  make  use  of  it,  though  at  times  it  leads  to  a  tedious 
repetition  of  the  text.  Often,  too,  he  seems  to  be  labour- 


96          PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

ing  under  the  handicap  of  a  brilliant  novelist,  who  must 
needs  make  up  in  scenery  what  is  lacking  in  plot. 

Since  his  return  to  London  he  has  been  less  given  to 
filigree  rhetoric,  and  he  has  struck  almost  for  the  first  time 
a  social  note,  to  the  extent,  at  any  rate,  of  touching  upon 
public  affairs — although  no  one  would  claim  that  Dr. 
Jowett  has  a  social  message,  in  the  real  meaning  of  that 
phrase.  No,  his  forte  is  personal  religious  experience  of 
a  mild  evangelical  type;  and  to  a  convinced  Christian 
audience  of  that  tradition  and  training  he  has  a  ministry 
of  edification  and  comfort.  But  for  the  typical  man  of 
modern  mind,  caught  in  the  currents  and  alive  to  the  agita- 
tions of  our  day,  Dr.  Jowett  has  no  message.  However, 
we  must  not  expect  everything  from  any  one  servant  of 
God,  and  the  painter  is  needed  as  well  as  the  prophet. 

June  2nd: — Spent  a  lovely  day  yesterday  at  Selborne,  a 
town  tucked  away  among  the  chalk-hills  of  Hampshire. 
There,  well-nigh  two  hundred  years  ago,  Gilbert  White 
watched  the  Hangar  grow  green  in  May  and  orange  and 
scarlet  in  October,  and  learned  to  be  wise.  One  can  almost 
see  him  in  the  atmosphere  and  setting  of  his  life, — an  old- 
bachelor  parson,  his  face  marked  by  the  smallpox,  as  so 
many  were  in  that  day, — walking  over  the  hills,  which  he 
called  "majestic  mountains,"  a  student  and  lover  of  nature. 
He  was  a  man  who  knew  his  own  mind,  worked  his  little 
plot  of  earth  free  from  the  delusions  of  grandeur,  and 
published  his  classic  book,  "The  Natural  History  of  Sel- 
borne," in  the  year  of  the  fall  of  the  Bastille.  Because  of 
this  coincidence  of  dates,  it  has  been  said  that  White  was 
more  concerned  with  the  course  of  events  in  a  martin's 
nest  than  with  the  crash  of  empires.  No  doubt;  but  it 
may  be  that  the  laws  of  the  universe  through  which  em- 
pires fall  are  best  known  by  a  man  who  has  such  quietness 
of  soul  that  a  brooding  mother-bird  will  not  fly  away 
when  he  visits  her.  White  asked  the  universe  one  ques- 


WAR  AND  PREACHING  97 

tion,  and  waited  to  hear  the  answer:  Take  away  fear, 
and  what  follows  ?  The  answer  is :  Peace,  even  the  peace 
without  which  a  man  cannot  learn  that  when  "redstarts 
shake  their  tails,  they  move  them  horizontally."  It  was  a 
day  to  refresh  the  soul. 

June  loth: — Attended  a  Ministerial  Fraternal  to-day, 
and  greatly  enjoyed  the  freedom  and  frankness  of  the  dis- 
cussion. A  conservative  in  England  would  be  a  radical  in 
America,  so  far  are  they  in  advance  of  us.  Evidently  our 
English  brethren  have  gotten  over  the  theological  mumps, 
measles,  and  whooping-cough.  For  one  thing,  they  have 
accepted  the  results  of  the  critical  study  of  the  Bible,  with- 
out losing  any  of  the  warmth  and  glow  of  evangelical 
faith, — uniting  liberal  thought  with  orthodoxy  of  the 
heart, — as  we  in  America  have  not  succeeded  in  doing. 
All  confessed  that  the  atmosphere  of  their  work  has 
changed;  that  the  fingers  of  their  sermons  grope  blindly 
amid  the  hidden  keys  of  the  modern  mind,  seeking  the 
great  new  words  of  comfort  and  light.  It  was  agreed 
that  a  timid,  halting,  patched-up  restatement  of  faith  will 
not  do :  there  must  be  a  radical  reinterpretation,  if  we  are 
to  speak  to  the  new  time,  which  thinks  in  new  terms.  On 
social  questions,  too,  the  discussion  was  trenchant,  at 
times  even  startling.  There  was  real  searching  of  hearts, 
drawing  us  together  in  a  final  candour,  and  driving  us 
back  to  the  permanent  fountains  of  power.  The  spirit  of 
the  meeting  was  most  fraternal,  and  I,  for  one,  felt  that 
fellowship  is  both  creative  and  revealing. 

June  2$th: — American  troops  are  pouring  into  Eng- 
land, and  the  invasion  is  a  revelation  to  the  English  people. 
Nothing  could  surpass  the  kindness  and  hospitality  with 
which  they  open  their  hearts  and  homes  to  their  kinsmen 
from  the  great  West.  They  are  at  once  courteous  and 
critical,  torn  between  feelings  of  joy,  sorrow,  and  a  kind 
of  gentle  jealousy — at  thought  of  their  own  fine  fellows 


98  PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

who  went  away  and  did  not  come  back.  They  have  seen 
many  kinds  of  Americans,  among  them  the  tourist,  the 
globe-trotter,  the  unspeakable  fop,  and  the  newly  rich  who 
spread  their  vulgarity  all  over  Europe ;  but  now  they  are 
discovering  the  real  American, — the  manly,  modest,  intelli- 
gent lad  from  the  college,  the  store,  the  farm, — and  they 
like  him.  He  is  good  to  look  at,  wholesome,  hearty, 
straightforward,  serious  but  not  solemn,  and  he  has  the 
air  of  one  on  an  errand.  On  the  surface  the  British 
Tommy  affects  to  take  the  war  as  a  huge  joke,  but  our  men 
take  it  in  dead  earnest.  "Why,  your  men  are  mystics ;  they 
are  crusaders,"  said  an  English  journalist  to  me  recently; 
and  I  confess  they  do  have  that  bearing — for  such  they 
really  are.  Last  night,  in  a  coffee-house  on  the  Strand,  I 
asked  a  Cockney  proprietor  if  he  had  seen  many  American 
boys  and  what  he  thought  of  them.  Something  like  this  is 
what  I  heard: — 

"Yerce,  and  I  like  what  I've  seen  of  'em.  No  swank 
about  'em,  y*  know — officers  an'  men,  just  like  pals  to- 
gether. Talks  to  yeh  mately-like — know  what  I  mean? — 
man  to  man  sort  o'  thing.  Nice,  likable  chaps,  I  alwis 
finds  'em.  Bit  of  a  change  after  all  these  damn  foreign- 
ers. I  get  on  with  'em  top-'ole.  And  eat  ?  Fair  clean  me 
out.  Funny  the  way  they  looks  at  London,  though.  Mad 
about  it,  y'  know.  I  bin  in  London  yers  an'  yers,  and  it 
don't  worry  me.  Wants  to  know  where  that  bloke  put  'is 
cloak  down  in  the  mud  for  some  Queen,  and  'ow  many 
generals  is  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey.  'Ow  should  I 
know  ?  I  live  in  Camden  Town.  I  got  a  business  t'  attend 
to.  Likable  boys,  though.  'Ere's  to  'em !" 

July  4th: — Went  to  the  American  Army  and  Navy 
baseball  game,  taking  as  my  guests  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment and  a  City  Temple  friend.  Never  has  there  been 
such  a  ball  game  since  time  began.  The  King  pitched  the 
first  ball,  and  did  it  right  well,  too.  The  papers  say  he  has 


WAR  AND  PREACHING  99 

been  practising  for  days.  Then  bedlam  broke  loose ;  bar- 
baric pandemonium  reigned.  Megaphones,  whistles,  every 
kind  of  instrument  of  torture  kept  accompaniment  to  toss- 
ing arms  and  dancing  hats — while  the  grandstand  gave 
such  an  exhibition  of  "rooting"  in  slang  as  I  never  heard 
before.  Much  of  the  slang  was  new  to  me,  and  to  inter- 
pret it  to  my  English  friends,  and  at  the  same  time  explain 
the  game,  was  a  task  for  a  genius.  Amazement  sat  upon 
their  faces.  They  had  never  imagined  that  a  hard  busi- 
ness people  could  explode  in  such  a  hysteria  of  play.  An 
English  crowd  is  orderly  and  ladylike  in  comparison.  Of 
course,  the  players,  aware  of  an  audience  at  once  distin- 
guished and  astonished,  put  on  extra  airs;  and  as  the 
game  went  on,  the  fun  became  faster  and  more  furious. 
My  friends  would  stop  their  ears  to  save  their  sanity,  at 
the  same  time  pretending,  with  unfailing  courtesy,  to  see, 
hear,  and  understand  everything.  The  Navy  won,  and 
one  last,  long,  lusty  yell  concluded  the  choral  service  of  the 
day. 

July  20th: — "The  Miracle  of  St.  Dunstan's."  It  is  no 
exaggeration,  if  by  miracle  you  mean  the  triumph  of  spirit 
over  matter  and  untoward  disaster.  St.  Dunstan's  is  the 
college  where  young  men  who  gave  their  eyes  for  their 
country  learn  to  be  blind;  and  as  I  walked  through  it  to- 
day I  thought  of  Henley's  lines  : — 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
Black  as  the  pit  from  pole  to  pole, 

I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 

Many  of  the  men  are  horribly  disfigured,  and  it  is  a  mercy 
that  they  cannot  see  their  own  faces.  Yet,  for  the  most 
part,  they  are  a  jolly  set,  accepting  the  inevitable  with  that 
spirit  of  sport  which  is  so  great  a  trait  of  their  race.  At 
least,  the  totally  blind  are  happy.  Those  who  see  partially, 
and  do  not  know  how  it  will  turn  out,  mope  a  good  deal. 


100         PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

At  the  head  of  the  college  is  Sir  Arthur  Pearson,  himself  a 
blind  man  who  has  learned  to  find  his  way  in  the  dark — 
a  blind  leader  of  the  blind.  It  is  wonderful  to  hear  him 
talk  to  a  boy  brought  into  the  college  dejected  and  rebel- 
lious against  his  fate.  There  is  no  maudlin  sentiment.  It 
is  much  easier  to  cry  than  to  succour.  They  sit  hand  in 
hand, — comrades  in  a  conquest, — while  Sir  Arthur  tells 
the  lad,  out  of  his  own  experience,  that,  though  night  has 
come  at  noon,  the  day  is  not  ended.  His  words,  taken 
out  of  their  context  and  atmosphere,  might  sound  preachy, 
as  he  tells  how  he  refused  to  be  beaten,  and  how  darkness 
has  its  surprises.  All  honour  to  Sir  Arthur, — Knight  of 
the  Dark  Table, — unforgettable  for  his  courage,  his  chiv- 
alry, and  his  cheerfulness! 

(Early  in  August  I  went  again  to  America,  on  another 
speaking  tour,  crossing  the  bar  at  Liverpool,  in  the  glow 
of  a  miraculous  sunset,  the  sacramental  beauty  of  which 
haunts  me  still.  Time  out  of  mind  I  had  known  Uncle 
Sam,  in  his  suit  of  nankeen  trousers  strapped  under  his 
instep,  his  blue  swallow-tail  coat  and  brass  buttons,  and 
his  ancient  high  hat  It  was  not  easy  to  recognise  him 
clad  in  khaki,  wearing  a  gas-mask  and  a  "tin  lid,"  and 
going  over  the  top  with  a  Springfield  rifle  in  his  hand ;  and 
that  change  in  outward  garb  was  a  visible  sign  of  much 
else.  Down  the  streets  of  New  York,  at  midnight,  one 
saw  long  lines  of  men  marching,  singing  "Over  There" ; 
and  Service  Stars  were  everywhere,  changing  from  silver 
to  gold.  It  was  an  awe-inspiring  America, — new  in  its 
unity,  its  power,  and  its  vision  of  duty, — albeit  to-day,  it 
seems  like  a  dim  dream  of  some  previous  state  of  existence. 
Returning  to  England  in  October,  my  ship  was  one  of 
fifteen  loaded  with  troops,  following  a  zigzag  course  over 
a  lonely  sea.  It  was  at  the  time  of  the  influenza  epidemic, 
and  almost  every  ship  kept  a  funeral  flag  flying  all  the 


101 

way.  Off  the  north  coast  of  Ireland  we  witnessed  the 
destruction  of  an  enemy  submarine.  Once  more,  on  a 
Thursday  noon,  I  took  up  my  labours  at  the  City  Temple, 
in  an  address  entitled  "The  New  America,"  in  which  I 
tried  to  describe  the  novel  experience  of  rediscovering 
my  own  country.  Events  moved  rapidly,  and  I  need  add 
only  one  or  two  items  from  the  diary,  telling  of  the  end 
of  the  greatest  war  in  history,  the  meaning  and  issue  of 
which  are  locked  in  the  bosom  of  God.) 

October  2$th: — Three  times  since  I  returned  I  have 
spoken  to  groups  in  behalf  of  Anglo-American  friendship, 
but  to  little  avail.  My  audiences  were  already  utterly 
convinced,  and  it  was  like  arguing  with  Miss  Pankhurst 
in  favour  of  woman  suffrage — as  useless  as  rain  at  sea. 
Somehow  we  never  get  beyond  the  courtesies  and  com- 
monplaces of  after-dinner  eloquence.  Yet  the  matter  is  of 
vital  importance  just  now.  Already  there  are  rumours  of 
friction  between  our  boys  and  the  Tommies.  These  are 
little  things,  but  the  sum  of  them  is  very  great,  and  in  the 
mood  of  the  hour  so  many  reactions  of  personal  antag- 
onism may  be  fatal.  Not  much  idealism  is  left  after  the 
long  struggle,  and  one  fears  a  dreadful  reaction, — a  swift, 
hideous  slip  backward, — driving  Britain  and  America 
further  apart  than  they  were  before  the  war.  Little 
groups  do  something,  but  what  we  need  is  some  great 
gesture,  to  compel  attention  and  dramatise  the  scene  for 
the  masses  on  both  sides  of  the  sea.  Frankly,  I  am  not 
clear  as  to  the  best  method — except  that  we  have  not 
found  it.  Even  now,  all  feel  that  the  end  of  the  war  is 
near,  and  one  detects  tokens  which  foretell  a  different 
mood  when  peace  arrives. 

October  2$th: — Ever  and  again  one  hears  rumours  of  a 
revolution  in  England  in  which  things  will  be  turned  up- 
side down.  One  might  be  more  alarmed,  but  for  the  fact 


102         PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

that  the  revolution  has  already  taken  place.  The  old  Eng- 
land has  gone,  taking  with  it  much  that  was  lovely  and 
fair ;  a  new  England  is  here, — new  in  spirit,  in  vision,  in 
outlook, — not  only  changing  in  temper,  but  actually  chang- 
ing hands.  As  the  Napoleonic  wars  ended  the  aristocratic 
epoch  and  brought  the  middle  class  to  the  fore,  so  the 
great  war  has  ended  the  rule  of  the  middle  class  and  will 
bring  the  man  down  under  to  the  top.  Of  course,  as  to 
outward  appearance,  the  aristocratic  and  middle  classes 
still  rule;  but  their  ideas  do  not  rule.  There  will  be  no 
violent  upheaval  in  England;  the  genius  of  the  British 
mind — a  practical  mysticism,  so  to  name  it,  though  the 
practicality  is  often  more  manifest  than  the  mysticism — 
will  not  let  it  be  so.  Again  and  again  I  have  seen  them 
drawn  up  in  battle-array,  ready  for  a  fight  to  a  finish — 
then,  the  next  moment,  they  begin  to  parley,  to  give  and 
take;  and,  finally,  they  compromise,  each  getting  some- 
thing and  nobody  getting  all  he  asked.  Therein  they  are 
wise,  and  their  long  political  experience,  their  instinct  for 
the  middle  way,  as  well  as  their  non-explosive  tempera- 
ment, stand  them  in  good  stead  in  these  days.  Besides,  if 
English  society  is  a  house  of  three  stories,  the  house  has 
been  so  shaken  by  the  earthquake  of  war  that  all  classes 
have  a  new  sense  of  kinship  and  obligation.  No  doubt 
there  will  be  flare-ups  in  Wales,  or  among  the  hot-heads  on 
the  Clyde ;  but  there  is  little  danger  of  anything  more. 

November  8th: — Went  to  Oxford  last  night  to  hear 
Professor  Gilbert  Murray  lecture  on  the  Peloponnesian 
War  of  the  Greeks  as  compared  with  our  great  war;  and 
his  words  haunt  me.  With  an  uncanny  felicity,  the  great 
scholar — who  is  also  a  great  citizen — told  the  story  of  the 
war  that  destroyed  Greek  civilisation ;  and  the  parallel  with 
the  present  war  was  deadly,  even  down  to  minute  details. 
About  the  only  differences  are  the  magnitude  of  the  armies 
and  the  murderous  efficiency  of  the  weapons  we  now 


WAR  AND  PREACHING          103 

employ.  As  I  listened,  I  found  myself  wondering  whether 
I  was  in  Oxford  or  in  ancient  Athens.  The  lecturer  has 
the  creative  touch  which  makes  history  live  in  all  its  vivid 
human  colour.  Euripides  and  Aristophanes  seemed  like 
contemporaries. 

What  depressed  me  was  the  monotonous  sameness  of 
human  nature  throughout  the  ages.  Men  are  doing  the 
same  things  they  did  when  Homer  smote  his  lyre  or  Ham- 
murabi framed  his  laws.  For  example,  in  the  Athens  of 
antiquity  there  were  pacifists  and  bitter-enders,  profiteers 
and  venal  politicians— everything,  in  fact,  with  which  the 
great  war  has  made  us  familiar.  After  twenty  centuries 
of  Christian  influence,  we  do  the  same  old  things  in  the 
same  old  fashion,  only  on  a  more  gigantic  scale. 

This  shadow  fell  over  me  to-day  as  I  talked  with  a 
young  French  officer  in  my  study.  He  used  this  terrible 
sentence  with  an  air  of  sad  finality :  "Ideals,  my  reverend 
friend,  are  at  the  mercy  of  the  baser  instincts."  What 
faith  it  takes  to  sustain  an  ardent,  impatient,  forward- 
looking  soul  in  a  slow  universe!  "Keep  facing  it,"  said 
the  old  skipper  to  the  young  mate  in  Conrad's  "Typhoon" ; 
and  ere  we  know  it,  the  ship  has  become  a  symbol  of  the 
life  of  man.  He  did  not  know  whether  the  ship  would  be 
lost  or  not — nor  do  we.  But  he  kept  facing  the  storm, 
taking  time  to  be  just  to  the  coolies  on  board,  much  to  the 
amazement  of  Jukes.  He  never  lost  hope;  and  if  he  was 
an  older  man  when  he  got  through  the  storm,  he  at  least 
sailed  into  the  harbour. 

November  nth: — London  went  wild  to-day.  As  a  sig- 
nal that  the  Armistice  had  been  signed,  the  air-raid  guns 
sounded,  —  bringing  back  unhappy  memories,  —  but  we 
knew  that  "the  desired,  delayed,  incredible  time"  had 
arrived.  The  war  has  ended ;  and  humanity,  on  its  knees, 
thanks  God.  Words  were  not  made  for  such  a  time. 
They  stammer,  and  falter,  and  fail.  Whether  to  shout  or 


104        PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

weep,  men  did  not  know ;  so  we  did  both.  Something  not 
ourselves  has  made  for  righteousness,  and  we  are  awed, 
subdued,  overwhelmed.  The  triumph  seems  wrought,  not 
by  mortal,  but  by  immortal  thews,  and  shouts  of  joy  are 
muffled  by  thoughts  of  the  gay  and  gallant  dead. 

The  rebound  from  the  long  repression  was  quick,  the 
outburst  startling.  Men  danced  in  the  streets.  They 
hugged  and  kissed  and  sobbed.  Flags  flew  everywhere, 
flags  of  every  colour.  Women  wore  dresses  made  of  flags. 
Shops  and  factories  emptied  of  their  own  accord.  At  an 
early  hour  a  vast  host  gathered  at  the  gates  of  Buckingham 
Palace,  singing  the  national  anthem.  The  King  and 
Queen  appeared  on  the  balcony,  and  a  mighty  shout  went 
up — like  the  sound  of  many  waters. 

St.  Paul's  was  jammed  by  noon ;  the  Abbey  was  packed. 
It  melted  the  heart  to  hear  them  sing — there  was  an  echo 
of  a  sob  in  every  song.  All  know  that  the  secret  of  our 
joy  is  locked  in  the  cold  young  hearts  that  sleep  in  Flan- 
ders, in  eyes  that  see  the  sun  no  more.  Never  was  the 
world  so  coerced  by  its  dead.  They  command ;  we  must 
obey.  From  prayer  the  city  turned  to  play  again.  No 
wonder;  the  long  strain,  the  bitter  sorrow,  the  stern  en- 
durance had  to  find  vent.  At  first,  peace  seemed  as  unreal 
as  war.  It  took  time  to  adjust  the  mind  to  the  amazing 
reality.  Even  now  it  seems  half  a  dream.  There  is  little 
hate,  only  pity.  The  rush  of  events  has  been  so  rapid,  so 
bewildering,  that  men  are  dazed.  Down  on  the  Embank- 
ment I  saw  two  old  men,  walking  arm-in-arm,  one  blind, 
the  other  half -blind,  and  both  in  rags.  One  played  an  old 
battered  hand-organ,  and  the  other  sang  in  a  cracked  voice. 
They  swayed  to  and  fro,  keeping  time  to  the  hymn,  "Our 
God,  our  hope  in  ages  past."  So  it  was  from  end  to  end 
of  London.  The  grey  old  city  seemed  like  a  cathedral,  its 
streets  aisles,  its  throngs  worshippers. 


V:  Peace  and  Chaos 


V 

Peace  and  Chaos 

(No  sooner  had  the  Armistice  been  signed,  than  there 
followed,  not  simply  a  rebound,  but  a  collapse,  which  no 
one  who  lived  through  it  will  ever  forget.  Swiftly,  tragi- 
cally, the  high  mood  of  sacrifice  yielded  to  a  ruthless 
selfishness,  and  the  solidarity  won  by  the  war  was  lost, 
together  with  most  of  the  idealism  that  had  stood  the 
stress  and  terror  of  it.  The  moral  demobilisation  was  ter- 
rifying; the  disillusionment  appalling.  Men  had  lived  a 
generation  in  five  years;  and  instead  of  a  new  world  of 
which  they  had  dreamed,  they  found  themselves  in  a  world 
embittered,  confused,  cynical,  grey  with  grief,  if  not 
cracked  to  its  foundations — all  the  old  envies  working 
their  malign  intent.  Such  a  chaos  offered  free  play  to 
every  vile  and  slimy  influence,  making  the  earth  an  audi- 
torium for  every  hoarse  and  bitter  voice  that  could  make 
itself  heard.  It  was  a  time  of  social  irritation,  moral  re- 
action, and  spiritual  fatigue,  almost  more  trying  than  the 
war  itself,  the  only  joy  being  that  the  killing  of  boys  had 
stopped. 

Old  jealousies  and  new  envies  began  to  make  themselves 
felt — among  them  a  very  emphatic  anti-American  feeling ; 
a  reminiscence,  in,  part,  of  the  impatience  at  our  delay  in 
entering  the  war,  joined  with  suspicion  of  our  wealth  and 
power.  The  same  was  true  in  America,  in  its  feeling 
toward  England  and  the  other  Allies.  Mrs.  A.  Burnett- 
Smith  —  "Annie  S.  Swan"  —  in  her  admirable  book, 

107 


108         PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

"America  at  Home,"  tells  how  fine  and  warm  the  feeling 
in  America  was  before  the  Armistice,  and  how  quickly  it 
changed:  "There  was  a  reaction,  of  which  was  born  a 
coolness,  a  new,  subtle  hostility,  which  one  could  sense 
everywhere."  Her  book,  I  may  add,  is  one  of  the  few  of 
its  kind  that  never  fails  of  that  fineness  of  feeling  which 
should  always  exist  between  kindred  peoples.  Her  obser- 
vations are  interesting,  her  comments  frank  but  kindly, 
and  the  whole  book  is  informed  with  a  charming  and  sym- 
pathetic personality.  As  Mr.  W.  L.  George  has  said,  if  the 
war  did  not  make  us  love  our  enemies,  it  at  least  taught  us 
to  hate  our  allies.) 

November  soth,  1918: — For  one  who  has  set  great 
store  by  the  co-operation  of  English-speaking  peoples,  the 
new  anti-American  propaganda  is  like  a  personal  bereave- 
ment. The  feeling  in  England  with  regard  to  America  is 
certainly,  as  the  Scotch  would  say,  "on  the  north  side  of 
friendly,"  and  manifests  itself  in  many  petty,  nagging 
ways.  To  read  the  London  papers  now,  one  would  think 
that  America,  and  not  Germany,  had  been  the  enemy  of 
England  in  the  war.  Every  kind  of  gibe,  slur,  and  sneer  is 
used  to  poison  the  public  mind  against  America.  My  mail 
at  the  City  Temple  has  become  almost  unreadable.  It 
takes  the  familiar  forms — among  the  upper  classes  an  in- 
sufferably patronising  and  contemptuous  attitude  toward 
America  and  all  things  American ;  among  the  lower  classes 
an  ignorant  ill-will.  The  middle  classes  are  not  much 
influenced  by  it,  perhaps  because,  as  Emerson  said,  Amer- 
ica is  a  "middle-class  country" — whereof  we  ought  to  be 
both  grateful  and  proud.  This  feeling  against  America  is 
confined,  for  the  most  part,  to  England, — it  hardly  exists 
in  Scotland  or  in  Wales, — and,  like  the  anti-British  feeling 
in  America,  it  is  a  fruitful  field  for  the  venal  press  and  the 
stupid  demagogue.  Naturally,  a  journal  like  John  Bull — 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  109 

leader  of  the  gutter-press — is  in  its  glory ;  but  even  in  the 
better  class  of  papers  one  reads  nasty  flings  at  America 
and  its  President.  As  for  the  Morning  Post,  no  one  ex- 
pects anything  other  than  its  usual  pose  of  supercilious 
condescension  and  savage  satire,  and  it  is  at  its  brilliant 
worst.  Six  weeks  ago  we  were  regarded  as  friends;  to- 
day our  country  is  the  target  of  ridicule  as  clever  as  it  is 
brutal.  No  doubt  it  is  mostly  nerves — a  part  of  the  inevi- 
table reaction — and  will  pass  away ;  but  it  is  none  the  less  a 
tragedy. 

November  22nd: — It  is  nothing  short  of  a  calamity  that 
in  this  ugly  hour  of  reaction  and  revenge  there  is  to  be  a 
national  election.  There  is  no  need  for  an  election,  no 
demand  for  it.  But  to  those  who  can  see  beneath  the 
surface,  there  is  a  deeper  meaning.  Three  months  ago 
Arthur  Henderson  said :  "If  we  have  a  national  election 
in  Britain,  you  will  not  get  a  Wilson  peace."  I  did  not 
realise  at  the  time  what  he  meant ;  but  I  can  now  say  to 
him,  "Sir,  I  perceive  that  thou  art  a  prophet."  There  is  to 
be  a  khaki  election,  such  as  Chamberlain  had  following  the 
Boer  War,  the  better  to  coin  into  political  capital  all  the 
anger,  suspicion,  resentment,  and  disillusionment  burning 
in  the  public  mind.  In  other  words,  it  is  a  deliberate 
scheme  of  the  Prime  Minister — or  a  group  of  strong  men 
who  use  him  as  a  tool — to  mobilise  the  least  admirable 
elements  of  England, — not  the  great,  noble  England,  but  a 
reactionary,  imperialistic  England, — and  have  them  in 
solid  phalanx  behind  the  Peace  Conference.  And  in  the 
mood  of  the  hour  the  scheme  will  work,  with  consequences 
both  for  England  and  for  the  world  which  no  one  can 
predict.  Reaction  in  England  will  mean  reaction  else- 
where, if  not  everywhere. 

November  24th: — Nothing  was  left  hazy  after  the 
speech  of  the  Premier  in  Westminster  Hall,  launching  his 
Coalition  campaign.  It  was  a  skilful  speech,  intimating 


110        PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

that  even  the  Throne  may  be  in  danger,  and  playing  upon 
the  fears  and  hates  of  men.  He  wants  a  Parliament,  he 
said,  in  which  there  shall  be  no  opposition, — no  criticism, 
no  discussion, — and  this  proposal  to  prostitute  Parliament 
was  greeted  with  applause.  There  is  protest  in  the  Liberal 
press ;  but  men  in  the  street  and  tram  give  each  other  the 
knowing  look  and  the  approving  nod,  praising  "the  Little 
Welsh  Wizard."  It  is  called  a  "Coupon  Election,"  since 
each  Coalition  candidate  must  have  the  indorsement  of  the 
Prime  Minister,  and  the  food-coupon  is  the  most  detestable 
thing  in  the  public  mind.  Sir  George  Younger — master 
brewer  of  the  kingdom — is  the  organiser  and  wire-puller 
of  the  campaign. 

As  for  the  Prime  Minister,  he  is  both  the  author  and 
the  hero  of  the  most  remarkable  blood-and-thunder  mov- 
ing-picture show  in  political  history;  what  the  papers  call 
"The  Victory  Film,  or  How  I  Won  the  War."  He  goes 
to  and  fro,  shrieking  two  slogans.  First,  hang  the  Kaiser ! 
Second,  twenty-five  thousand  million  pounds  indemnity! 
What  sublime  statesmanship!  Behind  this  smoke  screen 
of  rhetoric  and  revenge  the  most  sinister  forces  are  busy ; 
and  the  trick  will  work.  Liberals  and  Labourites  are  un- 
able to  unite.  Even  if  they  should  unite,  they  could  not 
stem  the  tide.  Two  things  are  as  plain  as  if  they  were 
written  upon  the  wall.  First,  the  President  is  defeated 
before  he  sails ;  and  second,  if  the  war  is  won,  the  peace 
is  lost. 

November  26th: — Once  again  opinion  is  sharply  di- 
vided as  to  the  motives  and  purposes  of  the  Prime  Minis- 
ter. By  some  he  is  held  to  be  a  messiah,  by  others  a  light- 
minded  mountebank.  Still  others  think  he  is  only  a  polit- 
ical chameleon,  taking  colour  from  the  last  strong  man,  or 
group  of  men,  he  meets.  Obviously  he  is  none  of  these 
things,  but  merely  an  opportunist,  without  any  principle  or 
policy, — except  to  retain  power, — feeling  his  way  to  get 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  111 

all  he  can.  The  story  is  that,  walking  in  the  House  of 
Parliament  with  a  friend  the  other  day,  he  suddenly 
stopped,  tapped  his  breast,  and  said :  "I  sometimes  won- 
der if  this  is  Lloyd  George."  His  wonder  is  shared  by 
millions  of  people.  Certainly  it  is  not  the  Lloyd  George 
we  used  to  know,  who  had  the  light  of  morning  in  his 
eyes.  Limehouse  is  far  in  the  distance.  The  fiery  cham- 
pion of  justice  for  the  Boers  is  a  pathetic  memory.  The 
man  who  defied  the  vested  interests  of  England  in  behalf 
of  the  poor,  the  aged,  the  disinherited,  is  a  ghost.  There  is 
another  Lloyd  George,  so  new  and  strange  that  he  does  not 
know  himself.  With  his  personality,  his  power  of  speech, 
his  political  acumen,  which  almost  amounts  to  inspiration, 
he  could  lead  England  anywhere ;  but  he  has  turned  back. 
It  is  one  of  the  greatest  failures  of  leadership  in  our  time. 
November  28th: — Often  one  is  tempted  to  think  that 
the  Labour  Movement  is  the  most  Christian  thing  on  this 
island.  In  its  leadership,  at  least,  it  is  spiritually  minded ; 
its  leaders,  as  I  have  come  to  know  them,  being  sincere, 
earnest,  honest  men  who  have  worked  their  way  up  from 
the  bottom,  or  else  have  been  drawn  into  the  movement  by 
the  opportunity  for  service.  Not  all  of  them  are  so 
minded,  but  the  outstanding  leaders  and  spokesmen  of  the 
movement — who,  unfortunately,  are  in  advance  of  the 
rank  and  file — are  men  of  a  type  unknown,  or  nearly  so,  in 
American  labour.  Henderson,  Thomas,  Snowden,  Webb, 
MacDonald,  Clynes,  and  the  rest,  make  a  goodly  group. 
Henderson  is  a  lay  preacher ;  so  is  Thomas.  As  for  Rob- 
ert Smillie,  I  do  not  know  what  his  religious  affiliations,  if 
any,  may  be,  except  that  he  is  a  disciple  of  Keir  Hardie, 
and  that  his  relentless  idealism  is  matched  by  the  nobility 
of  his  character.  Tall,  gaunt,  stooped,  his  face  reveals  the 
harsh  attrition  of  earlier  years ;  but  his  smile  is  kindly,  and 
his  eyes  have  in  them  the  light  of  an  unconquerable  will. 
He  helps  one  to  know  what  Lincoln  must  have  been  like. 


112        PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

In  this  campaign  the  leaders  of  Labour  are  almost  the 
only  keepers  of  the  nobler  idealism  of  England,  and  their 
programme  is  essentially  Christian.  Alas,  they  have  a 
heavy  weight  of  inertia  to  carry,  and  one  wonders  if  they 
can  fire  the  apathetic  mass,  fatalistically  submissive  to  its 
lot,  and  suspicious  of  anyone  who  tries  to  alter  it. 

November  2$th: — Anyway,  I  am  having  the  time  of  my 
life,  going  to  every  sort  of  political  meeting  and  listening 
to  every  sort  of  speech.  It  is  a  big  show  and  a  continuous 
performance.  The  best  address  I  have  heard,  so  far,  was 
delivered  by  a  Methodist  preacher  at  a  Labour  meeting  in 
Kingsway  Hall.  His  sentences  cracked  like  rifle-shots, 
and  they  hit  the  mark.  The  campaign  makes  me  first  sick, 
and  then  homesick;  it  is  so  like  our  way  of  doing  it.  That 
is,  all  except  the  hecklers.  They  are  so  quick  and  keen  of 
retort.  Also,  the  English  can  beat  us  at  mud-slinging.  It 
is  humiliating  to  admit  it,  but  it  is  so.  We  are  amateurs 
in  abusing  the  government;  but  we  are  young  yet,  and 
longer  practice  will  no  doubt  give  us  greater  skill.  How 
like  our  elections  is  the  hubbub  and  hysteria  of  it  all.  Mr. 
Asquith  told  me  how  he  made  a  speech  on  world-affairs, 
and  one  of  his  audience  said :  "What  we  want  to  know  is, 
are  we  going  to  get  a  pier  for  our  boats!"  Always  the 
local  grievance  clouds  the  larger  issue.  How  familiar  it  is, 
as  if  a  man  went  out,  and  encountered  in  the  street  what 
he  thought  for  the  moment  was  himself.  Men,  otherwise 
sane,  seem  to  lose  their  senses  in  a  political  campaign. 
Statesmen  talk  drivel,  promising  what  no  mortal  can  per- 
form, challenging  the  scorn  of  man  and  the  judgment  of 
heaven.  O  Democracy ! 

(As  soon  as  it  was  known  that  the  President  was  to 
attend  the  Peace  Conference  in  person,  the  Tory  papers  in 
London  began  subtly  and  skilfully  to  paint  a  caricature  of 
him  in  the  public  mind.  He  was  described  as  a  kind  of 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  113 

Hamlet,  living  aloof  in  the  cloisters  of  the  White  House ; 
a  visionary  companioned  by  abstractions;  a  thinking- 
machine  so  cold  that  one  could  skate  all  round  him,  having 
"as  good  a  heart  as  can  be  made  out  of  brains," — "not  a 
man  at  all,  but  a  bundle  of  formulae," — and,  finally,  by  the 
Morning  Post,  as  a  "political  Moody  and  Sankey"  coming 
to  convert  Europe  to  his  gospel  of  "internationalism," 
which  it  described  as  a  "disease."  Such  was  the  reaction- 
ary attitude  toward  the  man  who  made  the  only  construc- 
tive suggestion  seeking  to  prevent  the  "collective  suicide" 
of  war.  But  only  a  small  part  of  the  British  press  was 
guilty  of  such  a  violation  of  good  form  and  good  feeling. 
The  Times — by  virtue,  no  doubt,  of  its  position,  not  only 
as  a  journal,  but  as  an  institution — secured  from  the 
President  a  memorable  interview,  in  which  he  was  shown 
to  be  actually  and  attractively  human ;  and,  further,  that 
he  had  no  intention  of  demanding  the  sinking  of  the 
British  Fleet. 

The  President  arrived  in  London  the  day  after  Christ- 
mas, and  the  greeting  accorded  him  by  the  English  people 
was  astonishingly  hearty  and  enthusiastic.  Their  curiosity 
to  see  the  man  whose  words  had  rung  in  their  ears,  ex- 
pressing what  so  many  hoped  but  so  few  were  able  to  say, 
joined  with  their  desire  to  pay  homage  to  the  first  Presi- 
dent of  our  Republic  who  had  set  foot  on  English  soil. 
His  visit  was  taken  to  be  a  gesture  of  good-will,  and  I  have 
never  seen  anything  like  the  way  in  which  he  captured  the 
English  people.  He  swept  them  off  their  feet.  For  a  brief 
time  his  marvellous  personality,  his  "magic  of  the  neces- 
sary word,"  his  tact,  his  charm,  seemed  to  change  the 
climate  of  the  island.  No  man  in  our  history  could  have 
represented  us  more  brilliantly.  In  Buckingham  Palace  as 
the  guest  of  the  King,  in  the  old  Guildhall  as  a  guest  of  the 
City,  at  the  luncheon  in  the  Mansion  House,  his  words 
were  not  a  mere  formal,  diplomatic  response,  but  real  in 


114         PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

their  unaffected  simplicity,  and  as  appropriate  as  they  were 
eloquent.  On  the  Sabbath,  instead  of  going  with  the  King 
to  worship  at  St.  Paul's,  he  went  to  the  little  Noncon- 
formist Chapel  at  Carlisle,  where  his  mother  had  been  a 
girl,  and  his  grandfather  the  minister.  His  brief  talk  in 
the  old  pulpit  was  a  gem,  and  it  touched  the  people  deeply. 
At  the  Mansion  House  luncheon  we  heard  the  news  of  the 
election  returns — the  result  having  been  delayed  in  order 
to  get  the  report  of  the  soldier  vote.) 

December  28th: — So  the  President  has  come  and  gone, 
and  the  Prime  Minister  has  learned  what  was  in  his 
Christmas  stocking.  It  is  a  blank  check,  and  he  may  now 
fill  it  in  with  such  stakes  as  he  can  win  at  the  Peace  Table. 
He  divined  aright  the  bitter  mood  and  temper  of  the 
hour.  It  is  a  Tory  victory  by  a  trick,  the  Liberal  Party 
having  been  asphyxiated,  if  not  destroyed;  and  it  remains 
to  be  seen  whether  it  can  be  resuscitated.  Mr.  Asquith 
was  defeated;  Mr.  Bottomley  was  elected!  In  America 
that  would  be  equal  to  the  defeat  of  Elihu  Root  and  the 
election  of  Hearst,  and  would  be  deemed  a  disaster.  So 
the  Prime  Minister  gets  what  he  wanted — a  Parliament 
tied,  hamstrung,  without  moral  mandate,  three  quarters  of 
its  members  having  accepted  the  coupon:  and  of  the  re- 
mainder, the  largest  party  consists  of  seventy  Sinn  Feiners 
who  are  either  in  prison  or  pledged  not  to  sit  in  the  House. 
It  is  a  Parliament  in  which  there  will  be  no  effective  oppo- 
sition, the  Labour  Party  being  insignificant  and  badly  led. 
The  Prime  Minister  gets  what  he  wants,  but  at  the  sacrifice 
of  the  noblest  tradition  in  British  history.  Labour  is 
sullen,  bitter,  angry.  I  predict  a  rapid  development  of 
the  dogma  of  Direct  Action;  and,  if  it  is  so,  the  Prime 
Minister  will  have  no  one  to  blame  but  himself.  Such 
is  the  effect  of  a  trick  election,  the  tragedy  of  which 
grows  as  its  meaning  is  revealed. 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  115 

(The  reference  to  Mr.  Bottomley  implies  no  ill-will  to 
him  personally,  though  I  hate  the  things  for  which  he 
stands.  When  it  was  announced  that  I  had  accepted  the 
invitation  to  the  City  Temple,  I  received  a  long  cablegram 
from  Mr.  Bottomley,  suggesting  that  I  write  for  his 
paper,  John  Bull,  and  telling  of  his  admiration  for  Dr. 
Parker.  Unfortunately,  as  I  did  not  choose  to  be  intro- 
duced to  England  through  such  a  medium,  I  could  not 
accept  his  invitation.  Often — especially  after  my  protest 
against  the  increase  of  brewery  supplies — he  wrote  cruel 
things  about  me.  It  did  not  matter;  I  should  have  been 
much  more  unhappy  if  he  had  written  in  my  praise.  He  is 
the  captain  of  the  most  dangerous  and  disintegrating  ele- 
ments in  Britain, — the  mob  as  distinct  from  democracy, — 
the  crowded  public-house,  the  cheap  music-hall,  and  the 
nether  side  of  the  sporting  world.  With  facile  and  copious 
emotions,  he  champions  the  cause  of  the  poor,  with  ready 
tears  for  ruined  girls — preferably  if  the  story  of  their  ruin 
will  smack  a  little  smuttily  in  his  paper.  Since  the  Armi- 
stice, his  office  has  been  the  poison- factory  and  centre  of 
anti-American  propaganda,  and  in  playing  upon  the  fears 
and  hates  and  prejudices  of  people,  he  is  a  master.  Alas, 
we  are  only  too  familiar  with  his  type  on  this  side  of  the 
sea.) 

January  4th,  ipip: — Joined  a  group  to-day  noon,  to 
discuss  the  problem  of  Christian  union,  by  which  they 
seemed  to  mean  Church  union — a  very  different  thing. 
But  it  was  only  talk.  Men  are  not  ready  for  it,  and  the 
time  is  not  ripe.  Nor  can  it  be  hastened,  as  my  friend  the 
Bishop  of  Manchester  thought  when  he  proposed  some 
spectacular  dramatisation  of  the  Will  to  Fellowship  dur- 
ing the  war.  Still  less  will  it  come  by  erasing  all  historical 
loyalties  in  one  indistinguishable  blue  of  ambiguity.  If  it 
is  artificial,  it  will  be  superficial.  It  must  come  spiritually 


116        PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

and  spontaneously,  else  it  will  be  a  union,  not  of  the 
Church,  but  of  the  churchyard.  Dicker  and  deal  suggest  a 
horse-trade.  No,  our  fathers  parted  in  passion ;  in  passion 
we  must  come  together.  It  must  be  a  union,  not  of  com- 
promise, but  of  comprehension.  If  all  the  churches  were 
made  one  to-day,  what  difference  would  it  make?  Little, 
if  any.  Something  deeper  and  more  drastic  is  needed.  As 
the  Elizabethan  Renaissance  was  moralised  by  the  advent 
of  Puritanism,  and  the  reaction  from  the  French  Revolu- 
tion was  followed  by  the  Evangelical  Revival,  so,  by  a  like 
rhythm,  the  new  age  into  which  we  are  entering  will  be 
quickened,  in  some  unpredictable  way,  by  a  renewal  of 
religion.  Then,  perhaps,  on  a  tide  of  new  life,  we  may  be 
drawn  together  in  some  form  of  union.  In  this  country  no 
union  is  possible  with  a  State  Church,  unless  the  Free 
Churches  are  willing  to  turn  the  faces  of  their  leaders  to 
the  wall.  So  far  from  being  a  national  church,  the  Angli- 
can communion  is  only  a  tiny  sect  on  one  end  of  the  island. 
Its  claim  to  a  monopoly  of  apostolicity  is  not  amenable  to 
the  law  of  gravitation — since  it  rests  upon  nothing,  no  one 
can  knock  away  its  foundations.  Just  now  we  are  impor- 
tuned to  accept  the  "historic  episcopacy"  for  the  sake  of 
regularity,  as  if  regularity  were  more  important  than 
reality.  Even  the  Free  Churches  have  failed  to  federate, 
and  one  is  not  sorry  to  have  it  so,  remembering  the  lines 
of  an  old  Wiltshire  love-song  which  I  heard  the  other 
day: — 

If  all  the  world  were  of  one  religion 
Many  a  living  thing  should  die. 

January  I2th: — Alas !  affairs  on  the  lovely  but  unhappy 
island  of  Ireland  seem  to  go  from  bad  to  worse,  adding 
another  irritation  to  a  shell-shocked  world.  From  a  dis- 
tance the  Irish  issue  is  simple  enough,  but  near  at  hand  it  is 
a.  sad  tangle,  complicated  by  immemorial  racial  and  reli- 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  117 

gious  rancours,  and,  what  is  sadder  still,  by  a  seemingly 
hopeless  incompatibility  of  temperament  between  the  peo- 
ples of  these  two  islands.  They  do  not,  and  apparently 
cannot,  understand  each  other.  It  looks  like  the  old  prob- 
lem of  what  happens  when  an  irresistible  force  meets  an 
immovable  object.  Besides,  the  friction  is  not  only  be- 
tween Ireland  and  England,  but  between  two  Irelands — 
different  in  race,  religion,  and  economic  organisation.  If 
Ireland  could  be  divided,  as  Lincoln  divided  Virginia,  the 
riddle  would  be  solved.  But  no  Irishman  will  agree. 

The  English  people,  as  I  talk  with  them  about  Ireland, 
are  as  much  bewildered  by  it  as  anybody  else.  They  do 
feel  hurt  at  the  attitude  of  South  Ireland  during  the 
war,  and  I  confess  I  cannot  chide  them  for  it.  Ireland  was 
exempted  from  conscription,  from  rationing,  from  nearly 
all  the  hardships  of  a  war  which,  had  it  been  lost,  would 
have  meant  the  enslavement  of  Ireland,  as  well  as  the  rest 
of  the  world.  A  distinguished  journalist  told  me  that  his 
own  Yorkshire  relatives  were  forced  into  Irish  regiments 
by  politicians,  to  make  it  appear  that  Ireland  was  righting. 
The  Irish  seaboard,  except  in  Ulster,  was  hostile  seaboard. 
It  required  seventy-five  thousand  men  to  keep  order  in 
Ireland,  and  that,  too,  at  a  time  when  every  man  was 
needed  at  the  front.  Ulster,  in  the  meantime,  did  mag- 
nificently in  the  war,  and  it  would  be  a  base  treachery  to 
coerce  it  to  leave  the  United  Kingdom.  Ulster  may  be 
dour  and  relentless,  but  it  has  rights  which  must  be  re- 
spected. Yet,  if  England  does  not  find  a  way  out  of  the 
Irish  muddle,  she  may  imperil  the  peace  of  the  world.  So 
the  matter  stands,  like  the  Mark  Twain  story  in  which  he 
got  the  hero  and  heroine  into  so  intricate  a  tangle  that  he 
gave  it  up,  and  ended  by  offering  a  prize  to  anyone  who 
could  get  them  out  of  it. 

January  iqth: — To-day  a  distinguished  London  minis- 
ter told  me  a  story  about  the  President,  for  which  he 


118        PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

vouches.  He  had  it  from  the  late  Sylvester  Home, — 
Member  of  Parliament  and  minister  of  Whitefield's 
Chapel, — who  had  known  the  President  for  years  before 
he  was  elevated  to  his  high  office.  Home  happened  to 
be  in  America — where  he  was  always  a  welcome  guest — 
before  the  war,  shortly  after  the  President  was  inaugu- 
rated, and  he  called  at  the  White  House  to  pay  his  re- 
spects. In  the  course  of  the  talk,  he  expressed  satisfac- 
tion that  the  relations  between  England  and  America 
would  be  in  safe  hands  while  the  President  was  in  office. 
The  President  said  nothing,  and  Home  wondered  at  it. 
Finally  he  forced  the  issue,  putting  it  as  a  question  point- 
blank.  The  President  said,  addressing  him  in  the  familiar 
language  of  religious  fellowship:  "Brother  Home,  one 
of  the  greatest  calamities  that  has  befallen  mankind  will 
come  during  my  term  of  office.  It  will  come  from  Ger- 
many. Go  home  and  settle  the  Irish  question,  and  there 
will  be  no  doubt  as  to  where  America  will  stand." 

How  strange,  how  tragic,  if,  having  kept  America  out 
of  the  war  for  more  than  two  years, — since  nearly  all 
Irishmen  are  in  the  party  of  the  President, — Ireland 
should  also  keep  America  out  of  the  peace,  and  defeat,  or 
at  least  indefinitely  postpone,  the  organisation  of  an  effec- 
tive league  of  nations !  Yet  such  may  be  the  price  we  must 
pay  for  the  wrongs  of  olden  time,  by  virtue  of  the  law 
whereby  the  sins  of  the  fathers  are  visited  upon  generation 
after  generation.  Naturally  the  English  people  do  not 
understand  our  urgent  interest  in  the  problem  of  Ireland, 
not  knowing  how  it  meddles  in  our  affairs,  poisoning  the 
springs  of  good-will,  and  thwarting  the  co-operation  be- 
tween English-speaking  peoples  upon  which  so  much 
depends. 

January  i6th: — At  the  London  Poetry  Society — which 
has  made  me  one  of  its  vice-presidents — one  meets  many 
interesting  artists,  as  well  as  those  who  are  trying  to  sing 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  119 

the  Everlasting  Song  in  these  discordant  days — Masefield, 
Noyes,  Newbolt,  Yeats,  Mackereth,  to  name  but  a  few, 
with  an  occasional  glimpse  of  Hardy.  Nor  do  I  forget 
May  Doney,  a  little  daughter  of  St.  Francis,  walking  "The 
Way  of  Wonder."  A  reading  of  poetry  by  Sir  Forbes 
Robertson  is  always  an  event,  as  much  for  his  golden  voice 
as  for  his  interpretative  insight.  The  plea  of  Mackereth, 
some  time  ago,  for  poetry  as  a  spiritual  teacher  and  social 
healer,  was  memorable,  appealing  to  the  Spirit  of  Song  to 
bring  back  to  hearts  grown  bitter  and  dark  the  warmth  and 
guidance  of  vision.  The  first  time  I  heard  of  Mackereth 
was  from  a  British  officer  as  we  stood  ankle-deep  in  soppy 
mud  in  a  Flanders  trench.  If  only  we  could  have  a  League 
of  Poets  there  would  be  hope  of  a  gentler,  better  world, 
and  they  surely  could  not  make  a  worse  mess  of  it  than  the 
"practical"  men  have  made.  If  the  image  in  the  minds  of 
the  poets  of  to-day  is  a  prophecy  of  to-morrow,  we  may 
yet  hope  for  a  world  where  pity  and  joy  walk  the  old,  worn 
human  road,  and  "Beauty  passes  with  the  sun  on  her 
wings." 

January  ipth: — The  Peace  Conference  opened  with  im- 
posing ceremony  at  Versailles  yesterday,  and  now  we  shall 
see  what  we  shall  see.  An  idealist,  a  materialist,  and  an 
opportunist  are  to  put  the  world  to  rights.  Just  why  a 
pessimist  was  not  included  is  hard  to  know,  but  no  doubt 
there  will  be  pessimists  a-plenty  before  the  job  is  done. 
Clemenceau  is  a  man  of  action,  Lloyd  George  a  man  of 
transaction,  and  what  kind  of  a  man  the  President  is,  in 
negotiations  of  this  nature,  remains  to  be  revealed.  The 
atmosphere  is  unfavourable  to  calm  deliberation  and  just 
appraisement.  The  reshaping  of  the  world  out-of-hand,  to 
the  quieting  of  all  causes  of  discord,  is  humanly  impossible. 
Together  Britain  and  America  would  be  irresistible  if  they 
were  agreed,  and  if  they  were  ready  for  a  brave,  large 
gesture  of  world-service — but  they  are  not  ready.  Amer- 


120        PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

ica  had  only  enough  of  the  war  to  make  it  mad  and  not 
enough  to  subdue  it ;  Britain  had  enough  to  make  it  bitter. 
As  a  penalty  of  having  no  axe  to  grind,  America  will  have 
to  bear  the  odium  of  insisting  upon  sound  principles  and 
telling  unpalatable  truths,  and  so  may  not  come  off  well. 
We  shall  see  whether  there  is  any  honour  among  nations, 
whether  the  terms  of  the  Armistice  will  be  made  a  "scrap 
of  paper,"  and  whether  there  is  to  be  a  league  of  peace  or 
a  new  balance  of  power — a  new  imperialism  for  the  old. 
Meanwhile,  all  ears  will  be  glued  to  the  keyhole,  straining 
to  hear  even  a  whisper  of  "open  covenants,  openly  arrived 
at." 

January  joth: — On  my  way  back  from  Scotland  I 
broke  my  journey  at  Leicester,  to  preach  in  the  church  of 
Robert  Hall — the  Pork-Pie  Church,  as  they  call  it,  be- 
cause of  its  circular  shape.  In  the  evening  I  lectured  on 
Lincoln.  Leicester,  I  remembered,  had  been  the  home  of 
William  Carey,  and  I  went  to  see  his  little  Harvey  Lane 
Church,  where  he  dreamed  his  great  dream  and  struggled 
with  drunken  deacons.  Just  across  the  narrow  street  is 
the  red-brick  cottage  where  he  lived,  teaching  a  few  pupils 
and  working  at  his  cobbler's  bench  to  eke  out  a  living.  It 
is  now  a  Missionary  Museum,  preserved  as  nearly  as 
possible  in  its  original  form  and  furniture,  its  ceiling  so 
low  that  I  could  hardly  stand  erect.  There,  in  his  little 
back-shop, — with  its  bench  and  tools,  like  those  Carey 
used, — a  great  man  worked.  Pegging  away,  he  never- 
theless kept  a  map  of  the  world  on  the  opposite  wall  of 
his  shop,  dreaming  the  while  of  world-conqulest  for 
Christ.  There,  too,  he  thought  out  that  mighty  sermon 
which  took  its  text  from  Isaiah  54:2,  3,  and  had  two 
points:  Expect  great  things  from  God;  attempt  great 
things  for  God. 

No  other  sermon  of  that  period — 1792 — had  only  two 
points,  and  none  ever  had  a  finer  challenge  to  the  faith  of 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  121 

Christian  men.  We  need  the  vision  of  Carey  in  this 
broken  world  to-day,  that  so,  however  humble  our  lot,  we 
may  learn  to  think  in  world-terms — in  terms,  that  is,  of 
one  humanity  and  one  Christianity.  I  felt  myself  stand- 
ing at  the  fountain-head  of  that  river  of  God  which  will 
yet  make  this  war-ridden  earth  blossom  as  a  rose. 

April  8th: — The  City  Temple  mail-bag  entails  an  enor- 
mous amount  of  labour,  bringing  almost  a  hundred  letters 
a  week;  but  it  is  endlessly  interesting.  There  are  letters 
of  all  kinds — a  series  from  Manchester  proving  that  the 
world  is  hollow  and  that  we  live  on  the  inside — and  from 
everywhere :  China,  India,  France,  America,  and  all  over 
Britain.  If  an  American  says  a  naughty  thing  about 
Britain,  a  copy  of  it  is  sent  to  me,  underlined.  If  it  is  the 
other  way  round,  I  am  not  allowed  to  forget  it.  There 
are  letters  from  ministers  whose  faith  has  been  shaken, 
and  from  others  who  want  to  go  to  America ; pitiful  letters 
from  shell-shocked  boys  in  hospitals ;  letters  from  bereaved 
parents  and  widowed  girls  —  heroic,  appealing,  heart- 
breaking, like  that  from  an  old  woman  in  the  north  of 
England  whose  life  of  sorrow  was  crowned  by  the  loss  of 
her  two  grandsons  in  the  war.  In  closing  she  said :  "Me 
youth  is  gone,  me  hope  is  dead,  me  heart  is  heavy;  but  I 
neglect  no  duty."  To  which  I  could  only  reply  that, 
though  God  had  taken  everything  else,  in  leaving  her  a  love 
of  righteousness  He  had  left  her  the  best  gift  He  had. 

As  nearly  all  the  City  Temple  sermons  and  prayers  are 
published,  both  hearers  and  readers  write  to  agree  or  dis- 
agree, or,  more  often,  to  relate  difficulties  of  faith  or  duty. 
The  mail-bag  is  thus  an  index  to  the  varying  moods  of  the 
time  in  respect  to  matters  of  faith,  and  I  learn  more  from 
it  than  I  am  able  to  teach  others.  Every  time  a  sermon  has 
to  do  with  Christ,  it  is  sure  to  be  followed  by  a  shower  of 
letters,  asking  that  the  subject  be  carried  further.  In  spite 
of  the  agitations  of  the  world, — perhaps  because  of  them, 


— What  think  ye  of  Christ?  remains  the  most  absorbing 
and  fascinating  of  all  questions. 

Somehow,  in  spite  of  my  practice  for  the  last  ten  years, 
I  have  always  had  a  shrinking  feeling  about  writing  and 
printing  prayers.  Yet,  when  I  receive  letters  telling  how 
perplexed  and  weary  folk  are  helped  by  them,  I  relent. 
Public  prayer,  of  course,  is  different  from  private  devo- 
tion; it  is  individual,  indeed,  but  representative  and  sym- 
bolic, too.  One  speaks  for  many,  some  of  whom  are 
dumb  of  soul,  and  if  one  can  help  others  to  pray,  it  is 
worth  while.  Yesterday,  in  the  Authors'  Club,  a  man 
took  me  aside  and  told  me  this  story.  He  was  an  officer 
invalided  out  of  the  service,  having  been  wounded  and 
smitten  with  fever  in  the  Mesopotamian  campaign.  He 
took  from  his  pocket  a  tiny  book, — it  looked  like  a  note- 
book,— saying  that  it  contained  the  bread,  the  meat,  the 
milk,  all  that  had  kept  his  soul  alive  on  the  long  marches 
and  the  weary  waits  in  the  hospitals.  I  thought  it  was, 
perhaps,  a  copy  of  the  New  Testament,  or  the  "Imitation 
of  Christ" ;  but,  on  opening  it,  I  found  ten  of  my  little 
prayers  cut  from  the  paper  and  pasted  in  the  book.  Such 
things  help  me  to  go  on,  even  against  a  shrinking  I  cannot 
define. 

April  i6th: — The  hearings  of  the  British  Coal  Commis- 
sion, in  the  King's  Robing-Room,  some  of  which  I  have 
attended,  look  and  sound  like  a  social  judgment-day. 
Never,  I  dare  say,  has  England  seen  such  pitiless  publicity 
on  the  lives  of  the  workers,  the  fabulous  profits  of  the 
owners, — running  up  as  high  as  147  per  cent, — and  the 
"rigging"  of  the  public.  It  is  like  a  searchlight  suddenly 
turned  on.  No  wonder  the  country  stands  aghast.  Noth- 
ing could  surpass  the  patience,  the  courage,  the  relentless 
politeness  of  Robert  Smillie,  who  conducts  the  case  for  the 
miners.  He  has  had  all  England  on  dress-parade — Iqrds, 
dukes,  and  nobles — while  he  examined  them  as  to  the 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  123 

titles  to  their  holdings.  They  were  swift  and  often  witty 
in  their  replies,  but  it  means  much  that  they  had  to  come 
when  summoned  by  a  miner.  They  were  bored  and  surly, 
but  they  humbly  obeyed.  Truly,  we  are  in  a  new  England ; 
and  though  their  lordships  may  have  a  brief  success  in  the 
King's  Robing-Room,  they  are  in  fact  already  defeated — 
and  they  know  it.  They  win  a  skirmish,  but  they  lose  a 
battle. 

May  loth: — What  the  Free  Catholicism  may  turn  out 
to  be  remains  to  be  disclosed ;  so  far,  it  is  more  clever  and 
critical  than  constructive.  W.  E.  Orchard  is  its  Bernard 
Shaw,  and  W.  G.  Peck  its  Chesterton.  At  first,  it  was 
thought  to  be  only  a  protest  against  the  ungracious  barren- 
ness of  Nonconformist  worship,  in  behalf  of  rhythm, 
colour,  and  symbolism.  But  it  is  more  than  that.  It 
seeks  to  unite  personal  religious  experience  with  its  cor- 
porate and  symbolical  expression,  thus  blending  two  things 
too  often  held  apart.  As  between  Anglicans  and  Non- 
conformists, it  discovers  the  higher  unity  of  things  which 
do  not  differ,  seeking  the  largeness  of  Christ  in  whose 
radiance  there  is  room  for  every  type  of  experience  and 
expression.  It  lays  emphasis  on  fellowship,  since  no  one 
can  find  the  truth  for  another,  and  no  one  can  find 
it  alone.  Also,  by  reinterpreting  and  extending  the 
sacramental  principle,  and  at  the  same  time  disinfect- 
ing it  of  magic,  the  Free  Catholicism  may  give  new  im- 
petus to  all  creative  social  endeavour.  For  years  it  has 
been  observed  that  many  ultra-high  Churchmen — for  ex- 
ample, Bishop  Gore,  who  is  one  of  the  noblest  characters 
in  modern  Christianity — have  been  leaders  in  the  social 
interpretation  of  Christianity.  Perhaps,  at  last,  we  shall 
learn  that  it  was  not  the  Church,  but  Humanity,  with 
which  Jesus  identified  Himself  when  He  said:  'This  is 
my  body  broken  for  you.'  The  great  thing  about  Chris- 
tianity is  that  no  one  can  tell  what  it  will  do  next. 


124,        PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

June  2nd: — Have  been  down  in  Wales  for  a  day  or 
two,  lecturing  on  Lincoln,  and  also  feeling  the  pulse  of 
the  public  sentiment.  I  found  it  beating  quick  and  hot. 
Indeed,  not  only  in  Wales,  but  all  over  the  north  of  Eng- 
land, there  is  white-hot  indignation — all  due  to  that 
wretched  election  last  autumn.  One  hears  revolutionary 
talk  on  all  sides,  and  only  a  spark  is  needed  to  make 
an  explosion.  When  I  see  the  hovels  in  which  the  miners 
live, — squalid  huts,  more  like  pig-pens  than  human  homes, 
— I  do  not  wonder  at  the  unrest  of  the  people,  but  at  their 
infinite  patience.  Physical  and  moral  decay  are  inevitable, 
and  the  spiritual  life  is  like  a  fourth  dimension.  I  asked 
a  Labour  leader  what  it  is  that  is  holding  things  together, 
and  he  replied :  'All  that  holds  now  is  the  fact  that  these 
men  went  to  Sunday  School  in  the  churches  and  chapels 
of  Wales  years  ago;  nothing  else  restrains  them.'  Thus 
a  religious  sense  of  the  common  good,  of  communal 
obligation,  holds,  when  all  other  ties  give  way.  But  the 
churches  and  chapels  are  empty  to-day,  and  in  the  new 
generation  what  will  avert  the  'emancipated,  atheistic,  in- 
ternational democracy,'  so  long  predicted?  Religion  must 
do  something  more  than  restrain  and  conserve :  it  must 
create  and  construct.  If  ever  we  find  the  secret  of  creative 
social  evolution,  it  will  be  in  a  deeper  insight  into  the 
nature  and  meaning  of  religion  as  a  social  reality,  as  well 
as  a  private  mysticism.  This  at  least  is  plain :  the  indi- 
vidual and  the  social  gospel  belong  together,  and  neither 
will  long  survive  the  shipwreck  of  the  other.  Never,  this 
side  of  heaven,  do  I  expect  to  hear  such  singing  as  I  heard 
in  Wales! 

June  4th: — Wherever  Americans  foregather  one  is  al- 
most certain  to  meet  Lord  Bryce  or  Lord  Charnwood, 
and  sometimes  one  is  fortunate  enough  to  meet  both  of 
them.  As  liaison  officers  of  the  highest  type  and  useful- 
ness, there  are  no  others  like  them.  They  know  America 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  125 

— none  better  than  Lord  Bryce  who,  in  his  "American 
Commonwealth"  helped  to  interpret  America  to  itself; 
and  no  one  may  ever  hope  to  have  the  same  place  in  the 
veneration  and  goodwill  of  America  which  he  holds,  both 
for  his  character  and  his  service.  Last  night  he  told 
some  charming  reminiscences  of  President  Roosevelt  and 
his  boys.  Lord  Charnwood  knows  America,  too— he 
once  lived  in  Iowa,  I  am  told — and  his  "Life  of  Lincoln" 
has  done  much  to  make  the  supreme  figure  of  our  history 
a  common  possession  of  the  English-speaking  race.  If 
he  writes  the  life  of  Washington,  it  will  put  us  still 
further  in  his  debt. 

Lord  Bryce  seems  discouraged  about  the  future  of 
democracy,  as  he  well  may  be,  unless  there  is  a  spiritual 
orientation  to  cleanse  it  of  weakness  and  give  it  direction 
and  a  sense  of  responsibility.  Democracy  is  the  raw  truth 
and  fact  about  life,  nothing  else;  not  so  much  a  form  of 
government  as  the  stuff  out  of  which  government  is  to 
be  made.  It  is  the  whole  people  acting,  and  responsibility 
is  spread  out  so  widely  that  it  becomes  attenuated  to  the 
point  of  extinction.  The  individual  escapes  because  his 
act  disappears  underground,  so  to  speak,  and  is  trans- 
formed beyond  recognition  by  the  time  it  emerges.  It 
fosters  selfishness  without  fear  of  consequences.  So  far 
from  being  a  panacea,  without  moral  leadership,  without 
spiritual  vision,  it  may  be  a  plague. 

June  loth: — Much  is  being  said  about  the  ultimate  in- 
fluence of  the  war  of  Christian  theology.  It  is  too  early  to 
surmise,  but  some  things  begin  to  be  clear.  It  was  an 
august  and  awful  demonstration  of  the  moral,  social,  and 
spiritual  purpose  of  God  in  history.  Perhaps  its  most 
deeply  felt  truth  was  that  God  suffers  with  us,  though  the 
dogma  of  a  Finite  God — brought  forward  by  Wells,  and, 
earlier  by  Rolland,  in  "Jean  Christophe" — while  valid  as 
a  protest  against  a  God  who  lives  aloof  from  humanity, 


126        PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

is  unequal  to  the  deepest  necessities  of  man.  Atonement 
is  now  known  to  be  a  fact,  not  a  fiction.  We  are  not 
our  own;  we  are  bought  with  a  price.  Human  nature 
has  been  revealed  in  an  apocalypse,  its  good  and  evil  alike. 
Christian  faith  must  be  thought  out  anew,  as  that  faith  in- 
volves a  new  bearing  of  nations  to  one  another,  and  a 
vision  of  the  fact  that  the  interests  of  humanity  as  a 
whole  actually  exist.  The  "Gospel  of  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven"  is  being  discovered.  The  church  must  be  not 
simply  a  house  of  holy  mystery,  but  also  a  fellowship  in 
which  the  great  social  ideals  are  realised  under  religious 
influences.  The  missionary  enterprise  has  new  meanings 
and  implications,  and  must  have  new  methods.  It  is 
significant  that  it  interested  the  men  at  the  front  more 
than  almost  any  other  religious  theme.  The  discussions 
as  to  the  fate  of  those  fallen  in  the  war — many  of  whom 
were  not  "converted" — show  that  the  dogma  of  eternal 
punishment  is  repudiated  by  the  moral  sense  of  mankind. 
One  need  not  turn  sentimentalist  and  rush  everybody  all 
at  once  into  heaven,  but  the  war  must  inevitably  modify 
our  thought  of  the  destiny  of  man. 

June  1 2th: — Attended  a  remarkable  meeting  in  the 
Royal  Albert  Hall  in  behalf  of  the  League  of  Nations. 
Earl  Grey  presided,  and  in  a  brief  address — more  im- 
pressive for  matter  than  for  manner — he  stated  the  neces- 
sity for  some  attempt  to  organise  the  finer  forces  of  man- 
kind. The  chief  speaker  was  Lord  Robert  Cecil,  whose 
character,  personality,  and  practical  Christian  idealism 
make  him  an  invaluable  asset  not  only  to  his  own  country, 
but  to  civilisation.  He  read  his  address,  only  lifting  his 
eyes  from  the  manuscript  when  interrupted.  No  heckler 
intruded  until  the  orator  said,  with  emphasis,  that  the 
League  must  include  all  nations.  At  once  there  was  an 
uproar.  From  all  parts  of  the  vast  Hall  came  cries  of 
protest  and  hot  dissent.  Bible  texts  were  hurled  at  the 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  127 

speaker,  who  stood,  cool  as  an  Alp,  calmly  wiping  his 
glasses.  "Must  Germany  be  allowed  to  enter  the  League^" 
was  the  burden  of  the  protest.  "All  nations,"  the  orator 
repeated.  "Traitor !  Traitor !"  was  shouted  from  different 
parts  of  the  audience.  Confusion  reigned.  There  were 
fights,  and  more  than  one  man  was  thrown  down  stairs. 
The  proceedings  then  proceeded — the  orator  having  re- 
mained unruffled — until  a  woman  with  a  shrill  voice  in 
the  top  gallery  asked  about  Ireland.  The  speaker  replied : 
"Ireland  was  ably  represented  at  the  Conference,  I  hope, 
by  General  Smuts  and  myself."  As  it  did  no  good  to 
interrupt,  Lord  Robert  was  allowed  to  finish  his  address 
without  further  disturbance,  and  the  meeting  was  at  an 
end.  It  was  the  most  militant  peace  meeting  I  have 
attended. 

June  1 6th: — Henry  James  said  that  three  marks  dis- 
tinguish London — her  size,  her  parks,  and  her  'magnificent 
mystification.'  To  know  the  mystification  one  needs  to 
spend  a  night — cool,  moonless,  and  windy — on  top  of  St. 
Paul's  Cathedral.  After  climbing  as  many  steps  as  there 
are  days  in  the  year  and  a  journey  through  devious  diag- 
onals, we  emerge  by  a  tiny  door  leading  to  the  Golden 
Gallery,  three  hundred  feet  above  the  sleeping  city.  Sounds 
as  they  ascend  are  isolated  and  identifiable,  even  when 
softened  by  distance  or  teased  by  the  wind.  Fleet  Street, 
westward,  is  a  ravine  of  yellow  glamour.  Cheapside 
looks  like  a  fissure  in  the  side  of  a  volcano,  where  black- 
ness swallows  up  everything  else.  The  bridges  play  at 
criss-cross  with  lamp-reflections  in  the  river.  The  clock- 
tower  of  Westminster,  like  a  moon  and  a  half,  shines 
dimly,  and  the  railway  signals  at  Cannon  Street  Station 
look  like  stars  of  the  under-world — crimson,  emerald, 
amber.  By  half -past  three  a  sky,  mottled  with  heavy 
clouds,  begins  to  sift  them  into  planes  and  fills  the  breaks 
with  the  sort  of  light  that  is  'rather  darkness  visible.' 


128        PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

Slowly  the  pall  over  the  city,  half  mist  and  half  smoke, — 
the  same  'presumptuous  smoake'  of  Evelyn's  day, — begins 
to  drift  sullenly  with  the  wind,  like  a  gas-attack.  An 
hour  ago  the  lamplights  made  everything  seem  ghostly; 
now  the  ghostliness  is  theirs.  Presently,  out  of  a  sea  of 
slate,  Wren's  steeples  rise  like  gaunt  spectres,  with  an 
air  compounded  of  amazement  and  composure.  The  last 
thing  to  take  shape  is  the  Cathedral  itself;  first  the  gilt 
Cross  shines  palely,  then  the  Lantern  grows  to  unearthly 
whiteness,  but  the  Dome  still  broods  in  darkness.  As  we 
watch,  the  campaniles  and  the  statues  below  turn  from 
alabaster  to  ivory.  Squadrons  of  clouds  float  in  an 
atmosphere  that  is  turning  from  grey  to  pearl,  and  from 
pearl  to  gold,  like  the  rosy  amorini  in  a  Venetian  altar- 
piece.  The  river  is  astir  with  barges,  and  early  trams 
sprinkle  grains  of  humanity  about  the  thoroughfares. 
Camden  Town  crawls  back  under  its  pall  of  industrial 
smoke.  At  last  the  city,  in  all  its  infinitude  of  detail,  is 
revealed,  and  the  mystification  of  the  night  gives  way  to 
the  day  with  'sovran  eye.'  A  flashing  glimpse  of  the 
Cathedral  from  within,  in  the  glow  of  the  eastern  win- 
dows, makes  one  wonder  why  we  do  not  offer  our  worship, 
as  they  do  in  the  East,  at  dawn. 

June  joth: — Have  been  making  a  little  collection  and 
study  of  soldier  books,  and  one  reads  them  with  mingled 
exaltation  and  sadness.  First,  the  literature  of  the 
trenches,  the  poems  of  Seeger,  Brooke,  Letts,  Sorley, 
Kettle,  Sassoon;  the  letters  of  Harold  Chapin,  Dawson, 
Chevrillon,  Heath;  the  essays  of  Hankey — the  very 
thought  of  whom  is  as  "a  footstep,  always  light,  of  one 
untimely  gone  away."  It  is  a  body  of  sacred  writing 
which  anyone  should  read  whose  faith  has  grown  dim, 
clouded  by  the  dicker  and  deal  of  the  Peace  Conference. 
Second,  the  letters,  diaries,  and  brief,  blotted  memoirs  of 
men  who  fell,  edited  by  their  family  or  friends,  two  of 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  129 

the  most  haunting  of  which  are  the  "Letters  of  Arthur 
Heath,"  edited  by  Prof.  Murray,  and  the  divinely  beauti- 
ful biography  of  her  son  by  Lady  Pamela  Glenconner,  tell- 
ing of  one  who  was  "the  soul  of  activity  without  rest- 
lessness," subtle  of  mind  yet  "candid  as  the  skies."  Aye, 
it  is  an  evil  world  in  which  such  shining  figures  are  cut 
down.  A  precious  collection  of  letters  to  mothers  might 
be  made  from  the  literature  of  the  trenches.  For  it  was 
to  their  mothers  that  the  men  turned  when  death  hovered, 
not  to  get  comfort  but  to  give  it !  These  little  books  are 
the  final  rebuke  to  the  half  cynical,  half  pessimistic  mood 
by  which  we  are  tempted. 

Oddly  enough,  the  greatest  of  all  war  books  was  writ- 
ten before  the  war,  "The  Dynasts,"  by  Thomas  Hardy, 
in  which  we  see  humanity  writhing  in  the  agonies  of  the 
Napoleonic  wars — an  embattled  and  tortured  earth  under 
a  passionless  sky — to  an  accompaniment  of  the  Spirits 
Ironic  and  Sinister  answering,  antiphonally,  the  Spirits 
of  the  Pities.  To-day,  once  again,  sinister  voices  laugh 
at  our  noblest  ideals,  and  mock  all  talk  of  forgiveness. 
Yet,  hardly  audible  in  the  clamour,  one  detects  the  faint, 
prophetic  notes  of  the  Pities  telling  of  a  Will  that  will  not 
tarry  "till  it  fashion  all  things  fair." 

July  6th: — Studdert  Kennedy — "Woodbine  Willie,"  as 
the  Tommies  called  him — is  undoubtedly  the  greatest 
preacher  to  men  which  the  war  discovered  and  developed ; 
and  one  has  only  to  hear  him  to  understand  why.  He 
loves  it,  knows  the  knack  of  it,  and  it  was  a  great  sight 
to  see  him  addressing  a  vast  khaki-clad  audience,  using 
the  direct  speech  of  the  soldier — even  his  slang — to  dis- 
cuss profound  issues  of  faith,  as  well  as  intimate  personal 
problems.  What  he  called  "Rough  Talks  of  a  Padre"  were 
in  fact  great  sermons,  and  when  to  their  forthright  and 
vivid  style  one  adds  a  rich  Irish  accent  and  a  personality 
as  virile  as  it  is  winsome,  it  is  easy  to  know  the  secret 


130        PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

of  his  power.  It  would  be  difficult  for  anyone  to  forget 
his  address  entitled,  "Why  Aren't  All  the  Best  Chaps 
Christians?"  The  last  time  I  heard  him  the  sermon 
had  to  do  with  the  truth  that  God  limits  Himself  to  make 
room  for  man — giving  us  a  tiny  province  within  His 
Divine  providence.  It  was  a  very  striking  sermon,  but 
I  thought  he  should  have  distinguished  more  clearly  be- 
tween the  truth  of  the  reticence,  the  restraint,  the  august 
humility  of  God,  and  the  idea  of  a  finite  God  fumbling 
His  way  through  time,  not  knowing  His  own  mind,  as 
proclaimed  by  our  novelist-theologians.  The  one  is  Chris- 
tian Gospel;  the  other  a  camouflaged  atheism. 

July  ipth: — A  Day  of  Peace,  and  the  celebration,  both 
civic  and  religious,  was  overwhelming  in  its  impressive- 
ness.  Not  even  London,  grey  with  history  and  legend, 
ever  witnessed  such  a  procession  of  nations.  Picturesque 
costumes  reappeared,  quaint  old  customs  were  revived — 
as  when  the  trumpeters  once  more  stood  on  the  steps  of 
St.  Paul's  and  proclaimed  peace,  as  in  days  of  old.  The 
military  pageant,  led  by  Americans,  in  which  all  the  Allied 
armies  were  represented,  was  thrilling  beyond  words. 
Somehow,  in  a  way  one  cannot  describe,  all  felt  that  an- 
other army,  unseen  but  radiant,  was  marching  in  London 
to-day.  In  Whitehall  a  Cenotaph  had  been  erected,  and 
it  became  a  solemn  Altar  of  the  Dead,  at  which  high  and 
humble  alike  paid  homage,  amid  scenes  that  made  the 
heart  ache — as  when  an  old  woman,  bowed  and  broken, 
slowly  dropped  three  roses  upon  the  mountain  of  flowers 
—one  for  each  of  her  boys  given  for  the  common  weal. 
The  Halleluiah  Chorus  sung  by  eight  thousand  voices 
in  Hyde  Park  echoed  like  the  sound  of  many  waters.  In 
St.  Paul's,  in  the  Abbey,  in  the  City  Temple — in  church 
and  chapel  all  over  the  land — men  thanked  God  with  sobs 
in  their  songs,  as  if  the  words  of  the  poet  had  been  ful- 
filled: 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  131 

When  the  Te  Deums  seek  the  skies, 
When  the  Organ  shakes  the  Dome, 

A  dead  man  shall  stand 

At  each  live  man's  hand — 
For  they  also  have  come  home. 

July  25th: — With  appalling  clarity  we  are  beginning 
to  see  how  little  we  gained  by  the  war,  and  how  much  we 
lost.  Instead  of  a  world  worthy  of  the  generosity  and 
idealism  of  the  dead,  we  have  moral  collapse,  revolutionary 
influenza,  industrial  chaos,  and  an  orgy  of  extravagance. 
In  politics,  in  business,  in  social  life,  things  are  done  which 
would  have  excited  horror  and  disgust  in  1914.  One 
recalls  the  lines  of  Chesterton  written  after  the  landslide 
election  of  1906: — 

The  evil  Power,  that  stood  for  Privilege 

And  went  with  Women  and  Champagne  and  Bridge, 

Ceased:  and  Democracy  assumed  its  reign, 

Which  went  with  Bridge  and  Women  and  Champagne. 

Nothing  is  more  terrible  than  the  moral  let-down  all  about 
us,  unless  it  is  the  ease  and  haste  with  which  a  wild  and 
forgetful  world  has  proved  false  to  the  vows  it  swore 
in  its  hour  of  terror.  Yesterday  a  London  magistrate  said 
that  half  the  crime  in  the  kingdom  is  bigamy.  Reticences 
and  modesties  seem  to  have  been  thrown  overboard  to 
an  accompaniment  of  the  jazz  dance,  which  has  become  a 
symbol  of  the  mood  of  the  hour.  Often  it  has  been  said 
that  man  is  the  modest  sex,  but  I  never  believed  it  until 
now.  Young  girls  between  fifteen  and  twenty-two  are 
unmanageable,  and  imitate  the  manners  of  courtesans. 
Working  for  good  wages,  they  are  independent  of  their 
parents,  demanding  latchkeys,  to  come  and  go  at  all  hours ; 
and  at  the  slightest  restraint  they  leave  home.  In  broad 
daylight  the  public  parks  are  scenes  of  such  unspeakable 
vulgarity  that  one  is  grateful  for  the  protection  of  garden 
walls.  Who  can  estimate  the  injury  done  by  this  loosen- 


132         PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

ing  of  the  moral  bonds,  this  letting  down  of  the  bars  to 
the  brute?  Those  who  speak  of  war  as  a  purifier  of 
morals  are  masters  of  a  Satanic  satire ! 

September  i8th: — The  first  World-Congress  of  the 
Brotherhood  Movement,  held  in  the  City  Temple  at  my 
invitation,  closed  last  night.  The  first  day  was  like  a 
Pentecost,  and  we  heard  men  from  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
black,  white,  brown,  yellow — Hindu,  Hebrew,  African — 
each  in  his  own  tongue  making  plea  for  Brotherhood  as 
the  balm  for  a  wounded  world.  All  see  that  some  spirit 
other  than  hate,  some  principle  other  than  selfishness, 
some  vision  larger  than  sect  or  race  must  rule,  if  the 
world  is  to  hold  together.  The  Prime  Minister  preached 
a  fine  sermon,  painting  the  new  world  that  is  to  be — but 
how  it  is  to  be  brought  about  by  a  Tory-Brewery  Parlia- 
ment is  hard  to  know.  This  at  least  is  true :  Brotherhood 
is  not  a  mere  detail  in  the  religion  of  Jesus,  but  its  essence 
and  glory;  and  in  nothing  has  His  church  failed  more 
pitifully  than  in  its  lack  of  brotherliness.  Its  creeds,  its 
rituals,  have  been  framed,  it  would  seem,  to  exclude,  not 
to  include,  as  if  to  build  a  hedge  fence  about  the  limitless 
love  of  God.  The  Will  to  Fellowship  must  find  its  centre 
in  the  church,  if  it  is  to  overcome  the  Will  to  Rivalry. 
All  through  the  Congress  the  words  of  David  Swing,  in 
an  unfinished  sermon  left  on  his  desk,  kept  ringing  in  my 
ears :  "We  must  all  hope  much  from  the  gradual  progress 
of  brotherly  love — " ;  and  indeed  we  have  no  other  hope. 

(More  than  once  my  Diary  has  spoken  rather  sharply 
of  the  Prime  Minister;  but  it  is  understood,  of  course, 
that  it  speaks  of  him  only  in  his  public  capacity  as  a 
political  leader.  For  Mr.  Lloyd  George  personally  I 
have  the  greatest  admiration,  alike  for  his  character  and 
his  genius,  as  any  man  must  have  who  knows  his  career 
from  the  time  when  he  was  a  "little  brother  of  the  poor" 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  133 

in  Wales,  all  through  his  heroic  fight  for  the  oppressed 
and  disinherited  in  Britain.  Indeed,  it  was  just  for  that 
reason,  because  his  attitude  in  the  election  of  1918  and 
at  the  Peace  Conference — as  well  as  his  horrible  Black 
and  Tan  policy  in  Ireland  later — were  so  out  of  character, 
that  I  was  filled  with  sorrow  and  dismay.  Recently  he 
has  seemed  to  return  to  his  true  character,  and  with  the 
inconsistency  characteristic  of  the  opportunist  we  have 
seen  him  negotiating  with  the  leaders  of  Ireland,  whom 
he  had  denounced  as  ruffians  and  red-handed  murderers. 
No  matter  whether  his  change  of  temper  and  tactics  is 
due  to  the  return  of  the  better  angels  of  his  nature,  or 
to  the  threat  of  impending  chaos,  it  is  matter  for  re- 
joicing. Let  us  hope  that  he  will  once  more  take  up 
and  carry  through  the  great  reforms  laid  aside  at  the 
outbreak  of  the  war,  especially  the  emancipation  of  the 
land,  without  which  it  seems  impossible  for  Britain  to 
find  her  way  out  of  the  social  and  economic  difficulties 
in  which  she  is  involved.  Anyway,  as  matters  now  stand, 
no  living  man  has  it  in  his  power  to  do  more  for  hu- 
manity than  Mr.  Lloyd  George :  pray  God  he  may  see  his 
opportunity,  seize  it  and  use  it,  and  attain  to  that  supreme 
fame  which,  as  Gladstone  said,  is  akin  to  ideal  excellence. ) 

September  20th: — After  a  Pentecost  of  Brotherhood 
— a  railway  strike!  It  is  a  mixed  situation.  Since  the 
railways  are  still  in  the  hands  of  the  Government,  it  is 
in  fact  a  strike  against  the  State.  As  such  it  will  fail, 
for  no  community  dare  allow  one  class  to  impose  its  will 
by  force.  It  would  mean  the  end  of  Parliamentary  Gov- 
ernment, already  weakened  by  the  trick  election  last  year. 
Such  is  the  muddle — error  and  ill-will  on  both  sides,  and 
action  taken  in  haste.  Meantime,  it  is  amusing  to  see 
noblemen  acting  as  porters  at  the  railway  stations,  and 
great  artists  driving  food  vans  in  the  slums.  It  will  do 


134        PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

them  good;  it  will  do  us  all  good,  if  it  helps  to  melt,  or 
even  to  mitigate,  that  spirit  of  caste  which  some  thought 
would  disappear,  but  remains — cutting  us  into  classes  and 
sects.  Only  by  some  form  of  corporate  or  group  activity, 
such  as  we  are  now  witnessing,  can  we  realise  and  make 
practical  that  spirit  of  comradeship  so  much  needed  in 
industrial  life. 

September  22nd: — These  are  days  when  anything  may 
happen.  Having  lived  for  five  years  in  an  atmosphere  of 
violence,  men  are  irritable,  and  riots  break  out  on  the 
slightest  pretext.  Many  fear  that  the  history  of  a  cen- 
tury ago,  when  Peterloo  followed  Waterloo,  may  repeat 
itself.  Nobody  is  satisfied  with  the  result  of  the  Peace 
Conference — sorriest  of  sequels  to  a  victory  won  by  soli- 
darity and  sacrifice.  Some  think  the  treaty  too  hard,  some 
too  soft,  and  all  wonder  how  it  can  be  enforced  without 
sowing  the  seeds  of  other  wars.  The  Covenant  of  the 
League  is  criticised  as  keenly  here  as  in  America,  but 
with  nothing  like  the  poisonous  partisan  and  personal 
venom  displayed  at  home.  It  is  felt  that,  if  the  nations 
hold  together,  the  Covenant  can  be  amended  and  the 
treaty  revised  and  made  workable  as  need  requires;  but 
if  they  pull  apart,  the  case  is  hopeless. 

What  is  happening  in  America  is  hard  to  make  out, 
except  that,  under  cover  of  a  poison-gas  attack  on  the 
President,  all  the  elements  that  opposed  the  war — includ- 
ing the  whole  hyphenated  contingent — have  formed  a 
coalition  of  hatreds  to  destroy  him.  At  the  Peace  Con- 
ference he  was  the  victim  of  a  vendetta  by  men  of  his 
own  country  who,  for  partisan  purposes,  tried  to  stab 
their  own  President  in  the  back  at  the  very  moment  when 
he  was  negotiating  a  treaty  of  peace  in  a  foreign  land! 
Not  unnaturally  the  attitude  of  the  Senate  is  interpreted 
on  this  side  as  a  repudiation  of  the  war  by  America.  "You 
came  late  and  go  early;  having  helped  to  put  out  the 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  135 

fire,  you  leave  us  to  clean  up  the  mess,"  my  English 
friends  say.  No  wonder  they  feel  bitter,  and  this  feeling 
is  fanned  by  the  anti-American  fanatics,  whose  organised 
propaganda — something  new  in  England — has  been  so 
active  since  the  Armistice.  No  doubt  it  is  provoked  in 
part  by  the  stupid  anti-British  propaganda  in  America, 
with  other  elements  added,  the  while  sinister  forces  are 
busy  in  behalf  of  estrangement  between  two  peoples  who 
should  be,  not  only  friends,  but  fellow  workers  for  the 
common  good. 

Fortunately,  it  has  its  funny  side,  as  when  I  saw  in 
Regent  Street  a  card  in  a  tailor  shop  as  follows :  "Panta- 
loons Pressed,  two  and  six  a  leg,  all  seats  free ;  Americans 
not  wanted!"  Another  sign  just  off  the  Strand  read: 
"Definition.  An  American — A  Man  Who  Chews  Gum 
and  Wins  Wars."  The  humour  has  a  sting  in  it,  but  it 
is  good  humour  none  the  less,  as  I  learned  when  I  asked 
the  proprietor  why  he  did  not  add  "horn-rimmed  glasses" 
to  his  description  of  Americans.  He  laughed  as  if  to 
split — and  so  long  as  we  can  laugh  as  he  did  we  shall  be 
safe  and  sane,  however  silly  we  may  talk. 

(An  unhappy  example  of  this  feeling,  which  marred 
the  closing  weeks  of  my  ministry,  was  an  alleged  "inter- 
view" which  appeared  in  the  Daily  News,  purporting  to 
come  from  me.  It  made  me  use  words  remote  from  my 
thought,  in  a  spirit  foreign  to  my  nature;  and  the  result 
was  an  impression  so  alien  to  my  spirit,  and  so  untrue 
to  the  facts,  as  to  be  grotesque.  Such  words  as  these 
were  put  into  my  mouth :  "I  have  come  reluctantly  to  the 
opinion  that  an  American  minister  cannot  really  succeed 
in  England.  There  is  something  in  the  English  character 
or  point  of  view — I  cannot  define  it — that  seems  to  pre- 
vent complete  agreement  and  sympathy  between  the  two. 
There  exists  a  body  of  opinion  amongst  the  middle  men 


136 

in  the  ministry  and  the  churches  that  objects  to  the  perma- 
nent settlement  of  American  preachers  in  this  country." 
All  of  which  was  manufactured  so  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned, however  true  it  may  be  to  English  opinion.  When 
the  man  who  did  it  was  asked  for  his  reason,  he  said  that 
he  wished  "to  keep  American  ministers  from  coming  to 
England."  Of  course,  it  will  take  more  than  that  to  keep 
us  from  going  to  England,  but  the  incident  illustrates  the 
state  of  mind  almost  a  year  after  the  Armistice.) 

October  pth: — Sir  Oliver  Lodge  lectured  in  the  City 
Temple  to-night.  The  Temple  was  full,  with  many  stand- 
ing in  the  aisles.  His  subject  was  "The  Structure  of  the 
Atom,"  and  he  spoke  for  more  than  an  hour,  holding  his 
audience  in  breathless  interest.  Even  the  children  present 
heard  and  understood,  as  if  it  had  been  a  fairy-story. 
Indeed,  it  was  more  fascinating  than  a  fairy-story — his 
illustrations  were  so  simple,  so  vivid.  As  a  work  of  art, 
the  lecture  was  a  rare  feat.  If  only  the  men  of  the  pulpit 
could  deal  with  the  great  themes  of  faith — surely  not 
more  abstract  than  the  structure  of  the  atom — with  the 
same  simplicity  and  lucidity,  how  different  it  would  be! 
Tall,  well- formed,  his  dome-like  head  reminding  one  of 
the  pictures  of  Tennyson,  the  lecturer  was  good  to  look 
at,  good  to  hear;  and  the  total  impression  of  his  lecture 
was  an  overwhelming  sense  of  the  reality  of  the  Unseen. 
He  made  only  one  reference  to  psychical  studies,  and  that 
was  to  warn  people  to  go  slow,  not  to  leap  beyond  the 
facts,  and,  above  all, — since  spiritualism  is  not  spirituality, 
— not  to  make  such  matters  a  religion.  This  advice  came 
with  the  greater  weight  from  the  man  who  more  than 
all  others,  perhaps,  has  lifted  such  investigations  to  the 
dignity  of  a  new  science. 

October  I2th: — Mr.  Asquith,  Lord  Robert  Cecil,  Mr. 
Clynes,  and  Premier  Venizelos  of  Greece,  all  on  the  same 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  137 

platform,  speaking  in  behalf  of  the  League  of  Nations! 
Such  was  the  bill  of  fare  at  the  Mansion  House,  to  which 
was  added — for  me — a  spicy  little  chat  with  Mrs.  Asquith, 
most  baffling  of  women.  She  is  lightning  and  fragrance 
all  mixed  up  with  a  smile,  and  the  lightning  never  strikes 
twice  in  the  same  place.  Mr.  Asquith  read  his  address — 
as  he  has  been  wont  to  do  since  he  first  became  Prime 
Minister — in  a  style  as  lucid  as  sunlight  and  as  colour- 
less :  a  deliberate  and  weighty  address,  more  like  a  judicial 
opinion  than  an  oration,  yet  with  an  occasional  flash  of 
hidden  fire.  Clynes  also  read  his  address,  which  was  a 
handicap,  for  he  is  a  very  effective  speaker  when  he  lets 
himself  go.  Lord  Robert — tall,  stooped,  with  centuries 
of  British  culture  written  in  his  face — was  never  more 
eloquent  in  his  wisdom  and  earnestness ;  and  one  heard  in 
his  grave  and  simple  words  the  finer  mind  of  England. 
If  only  he  were  more  militant,  as  he  would  be  but  for 
too  keen  a  sense  of  humour.  He  has  the  spiritual  quality 
which  one  misses  so  much  in  the  statesmanship  of  our 
day — I  shall  never  be  happy  until  he  is  Prime  Minister! 
Venizelos  was  winning,  graceful,  impressive;  and  in  a 
brief  talk  that  I  had  with  him  afterward,  he  spoke  with 
warm  appreciation  of  the  nobility  and  high-mindedness 
of  the  President.  He  has  the  brightest  eyes  I  have  seen 
since  William  James  went  away.  Without  the  moral 
greatness  of  Masaryk,  or  the  Christian  vision  of  Smuts, 
he  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  personalities  of  our  time 
and  one  of  its  ablest  men. 

October  2oth: — The  President  is  stricken  at  a  time 
when  he  is  most  needed !  It  is  appalling !  Without  him 
reaction  will  run  riot.  Though  wounded  in  a  terrifying 
manner,  he  still  holds  the  front-line  trench  of  the  moral 
idealism  of  the  world!  Whatever  his  faults  at  home, — 
his  errors  of  judgment  or  his  limitations  of  temperament, 
— in  his  world-vision  he  saw  straight;  and  he  made  the 


138        PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

only  proposal  looking  toward  a  common  mind  organised 
in  the  service  of  the  common  good.  Nothing  can  rob  him 
of  that  honour.  If  our  people  at  home  had  only  known 
the  sinister  agencies  with  which  he  had  to  contend, — 
how  all  the  militarists  of  Europe  were  mobilised  against 
him  at  Paris, — they  would  see  that  his  achievement,  while 
falling  below  his  ideal,  as  all  mortal  achievements  do,  was 
nothing  short  of  stupendous.  Those  who  know  the  scene 
from  this  side  have  an  honourable  pride  in  the  President ; 
and  though  his  fight  should  cost  him  his  life,  when  the 
story  is  finally  told  he  will  stand  alongside  another  who 
went  "the  way  of  dominion  in  pitiful,  high-hearted 
fashion"  to  his  martyrdom.  He  falls  where  a  brave  man 
should  fall,  at  the  front,  as  much  a  casualty  of  the  war 
as  any  soldier  who  fell  in  Flanders  or  the  Argonne. 

November  nth: — Sunday  evening,  the  Qth,  was  my 
last  service  as  the  Minister  of  the  City  Temple,  and  the 
sermon  had  for  its  text  Revelation  3:14 — "These  things 
saith  the  Amen."  It  was  an  effort  to  interpret  that  old, 
familiar,  haunting  word, — the  Amen  of  God  to  the  aspira- 
tion of  man,  and  the  Amen  of  man  to  the  way  and  will 
of  God, — seeking  to  make  vivid  that  vision  which  sees 
through  the  shadows,  and  affirms,  not  that  all  is  well,  nor 
yet  that  all  is  ill,  but  that  all  shall  be  well  when  "God  hath 
made  the  pile  complete."  Its  message  was  that,  when  hu- 
manity sees  what  has  been  the  Eternal  Purpose  from  the 
beginning,  and  the  "far-off  divine  event  to  which  the  whole 
creation  moves,"  the  last  word  of  history  will  be  a  grand 
Amen — a  shout  of  praise,  the  final  note  of  the  great  world- 
song.  To-day,  at  noon,  all  over  the  Empire,  everything 
paused  for  two  minutes,  in  memory  of  the  dead.  The 
City  Temple  was  open  and  many  people  gathered  for  that 
moment  of  silent,  high  remembrance;  and  that  hushed 
moment  was  my  farewell  to  the  great  white  pulpit,  and 
to  a  ministry  wrought  in  the  name  of  Jesus  in  behalf  of 


PEACE  AND  CHAOS  139 

goodwill — speaking  with  stammering  voice  those  truths 
which  will  still  be  eloquent  when  all  the  noises  of  to-day 
have  followed  the  feet  that  made  them,  into  Silence. 

November  I2th: — To-night  the  National  Council  of 
the  Brotherhood  Movement,  which  gave  me  so  warm  a 
welcome  in  1916,  tendered  me  a  parting  dinner — an  hour 
which  I  can  neither  describe  nor  forget.  Dr.  Clifford — 
a  veteran  soldier  in  the  wars  of  God — presided,  and  his 
presence  was  a  benediction.  Looking  back  over  my  three 
years  and  a  half  in  London,  I  can  truly  say  that,  though 
I  did  not  want  to  come,  and  would  not  have  come  at  all 
but  for  the  war,  I  do  not  regret  that  I  did  come — save  for 
the  scenes  of  horror  and  suffering,  which  I  pray  God  to 
be  able  to  forget.  Nor  do  I  regret  leaving,  though  my 
ministry  has  been  a  triumph  from  the  beginning,  in  spite 
of  many  errors  of  my  own  added  to  the  terrible  conditions 
under  which  it  was  wrought.  As  long  as  I  live  I  shall 
carry  in  my  heart  the  faces  of  my  dear  friends  in  Eng- 
land, and  especially  the  love  and  loyalty  of  the  people  of 
the  City  Temple — the  memory  of  their  kindness  is  like 
sacramental  wine  in  the  Cup  of  Everlasting  Things.  Per- 
haps, on  the  other  side  of  the  sea,  because  I  now  know 
the  spirit  and  point  of  view  of  both  peoples,  I  may  be  able 
to  help  forward  the  great  friendship. 

November  I4th: — Hung  in  my  memory  are  many  pic- 
tures of  the  beauty-spots  of  this  Blessed  Island :  glens  in 
the  Highlands  of  Scotland;  the  "banks  and  braes  o'  bonny 
Doon" ;  stately  old  cathedrals, — strong,  piteous,  eloquent, 
— sheltering  the  holy  things  of  life;  the  towers  and  domes 
of  Oxford;  Stoke  Poges  on  a  still  summer  day;  the  roses 
of  Westcliff ;  the  downs  of  Wiltshire,  where  Walton  went 
a-fishing  and  Herbert  preached  the  gospel — and  practised 
it,  too;  Rottingdean-on-the-Sea;  scenes  of  the  Shakespeare 
country — the  church,  the  theatre,  the  winding  Avon;  the 
old  Quaker  Meeting-house  in  Buckinghamshire,  where 


140        PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

Perm  and  Pennington  sleep;  the  mountains  of  North 
Wales;  great,  grey  London,  in  all  its  myriad  moods: 
London  in  the  fog,  the  mist,  the  rain;  London  by  moon- 
light; the  old,  rambling  city  whose  charm  gathers  and 
grows,  weaving  a  spell  which  one  can  neither  define  nor 
escape;  London  from  Primrose  Hill  on  a  clear,  frosty 
day;  London  from  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's;  London  from 
the  Savoy  in  October,  seen  through  a  lattice  of  falling 
leaves,  while  a  soft  haze  hangs  over  the  River  of  Years. 
It  is  said  that,  if  one  lives  in  London  five  years,  he  will 
never  be  quite  happy  anywhere  else — and  I  am  leaving  it 
just  in  time! 


THE   END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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